


Commencer Par La Faim

by Shachaai



Series: Commencer Par La Faim [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Hannibal Lecter, Beta/Omega, Canon-Typical Violence, Cute Moments and Murder, Dream Threesomes, Fuck First Feelings Later, Fucked-up Erotic Body Horror Dreams(ex), M/M, Minor Alana Bloom/Will Graham, Minor Alana Bloom/Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Will Graham, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unless You’re Hannibal: Fuck First Fascination Always, Unplanned Pregnancy, Will lets an alarming number of things slide as long as people feed him, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 04:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 73,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20558558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Though he doesn’t particularlylikethe beta, for many reasons, sleeping with Dr. Hannibal Lecter had seemed like a good idea to Will at the time - not least of all that doing so prevented Lecter from ethically providing analysis of him to the FBI.But then, somehow, it seems that Hannibal can actually understand the way Will thinks, and that, in a world of madness, gore and shockingly beautiful murder, Will might have actually found a true friend. Whom he is still painfully attracted to despite all their differences, despite society and everyone telling them they’re unsuited for each other, and who still seems to be deeply attracted to him.Discovering he’s pregnant just complicates matters, because that’s just what Will needs when he’s already got murderers to catch, a demanding boss to appease, a surrogate daughter to defend and a brain on fire.Complications.[A Season 1 AU: loosely follows events afterApéritif,with a large omegaverse jump to the left.]





	1. chaud-froid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my plans for SummerSlick fell to the wayside because _this_ ate my brain instead.

_ Un bon repas doit commencer par la faim. _

Going to bed with Dr. Hannibal Lecter is either the best or worst decision that Will has made in the past few years of his life, and only time will tell which one of them it is. The sex had been impulse decision; another chance meeting with Lecter in Abigail Hobbs’ hospital room during Will’s mandatory post-incident leave from work had turned to conversation, the snap-_click _of words falling into place with Lecter like a jigsaw Will hadn’t realised could be assembled by two. A shared understanding between like minds that had run the same gauntlet of fire.

And Abigail had laid there on the bed beside them in her medically-induced coma, the monitors around her beeping steady recrimination direct to all who’d listen.

Partly as a distraction from it, Will thinks, Lecter had invited Will to a late lunch. At his home. Stopped Will with a touch to make the offer. His hand had been light atop Will’s wrist but his gaze, when Will had accidentally, distractedly, looked up underneath his lashes and caught it, had been harsh-electric, fish-hooking Will hard in the gut with the fat dark blooming of his pupil.

A biological response: beta. Will hadn’t been made uncomfortable by it.

“You’re not hungry for _ food,_” Will had blurted out before his brain had caught up with him, accusing.

“...No,” Lecter had agreed, and the drag of his thumb over the back of Will’s hand had made Will shudder, made Will’s omega scent grow thick around them both and sweeter. Smoky-sweet woodspice. Lecter’s gaze had turned devastatingly, promisingly, darker, and there had been no looking away from him then, no oasis for the sudden desert of Will’s mouth. “But I believe myself to be more than capable of sating any of your appetites.”

So pretentious, still. So self-assured, to the point of arrogance. To the point - Will’s mind is still explaining to him why he had seized the opportunity Lecter offered to him. Why he had followed Lecter in his beat-up car to Lecter’s ridiculously fancy house in Chandler Square, let the good doctor take his hand, take Will upstairs to his_ ridiculously _ fancy bedroom, spread Will out on his stupidly, _ ridiculously fancy _ bed, and proceed to fuck Will to two gasping, blinding and _ excruciatingly _glorious orgasms.

No lunch though. Yet.

Will can’t even use the lazy person’s excuse of alpha pheromones overwhelming him. Lecter is a beta - though he smells good enough to attract anyone he pleases, whatever their sex or gender. The sheets now twisted around Will’s waist on the bed - the finest of Egyptian cotton if Will had to stake his life on it, pre-washed to luxurious softness - smell of a mixture of sex, a dry, delectably spicy silveriness that makes Will trickle with slick when he shamelessly burrows his nose into it despite the fact he is two weeks past his last heat _ and _ blissfully fucked-out, and a warm and creamy _ deepness _ Will can’t describe except he knows he licked it from the wet hollow of Lecter’s throat as Lecter fucked him, teeth dragging over taut flesh. It’s good - it is deeply, possessively, wantonly so _ good _ -, and Will had purred as the scent filled his mouth and nose, dragged over his tongue, as the scent had caught him and drowned him in its thick and golden river as Lecter’s hot bare skin had rubbed it into Will’s skin all over.

It’s, most likely, Lecter’s hideously expensive cologne. _ God, _ it should be illegal for anyone to smell that good.

Though they’d both dozed off after the second round, belly-down beside each other, Will is reasonably sure Lecter is now, if not entirely awake, definitely conscious enough to notice if Will does anything more than minutely stretch, so Will restrains himself from reaching back and down to finger himself where he is still tender, open, though the scent of Lecter’s bed - the scent of them both _ in _Lecter’s bed - and the heat simmering slow in Will’s belly certainly makes him want to. It wouldn’t take much. Lecter had used condoms but Will is still wet and dripping slowly with his own slick - unusually, embarrassingly, copious this afternoon - and lube, his ass and balls and the skin between his thighs growing tacky where the air is beginning to dry it.

Will’s cock is beginning to stir with interest again, pressed between his belly and the mattress, and he wriggles slightly to try and get comfortable. Instead, he almost jumps out of his skin when _ something _skims airy as a moth down his spine - Lecter’s hand, as it turns out, the beta huffing out a laugh when Will turns startled eyes on him, tipping towards him on the bed.

“My apologies,” says Lecter. Doesn’t sound terribly apologetic as his fingertips ignore the space between them and ticklishly trace the curve of Will’s uplifted shoulder. His fringe is incorrigibly little-boy soft as it sweeps over his eyes onto the pillow, the strands gold and brown and ash in the afternoon sunlight. “You reminded me so much of the Louvre’s _ Sleeping Hermaphroditus _ in your repose, I had to be sure you were still a creature of flesh rather than marble.”

Right. Will’s eyes narrow. “I bet you say that to all the notches on your bedpost.”

“Only when it’s true.” Lecter, Will is quickly learning and reconfirming (as though the beta using and abusing the conventions of politeness by showing up on someone’s motel doorstep with a home-cooked breakfast to all but demand both entry and conversation as reciprocation hadn’t already informed him), is shameless. “The Masters would have wept for the chance to use you as their model.”

“I make a poor model,” Will says flatly.

Learning the ropes from his father in the boatyards as a young male omega, Will had been dealt more than his fair share of lines from the rich whose boats the Grahams had been working on. Leering eyes and lewd comments had got dressed up real pretty at first by the entitled, wealthy alphas, all of them heavy on the honey and the big long words that were supposed to impress poor little Will Graham with all the luxury and education that were realms beyond his grasp, have him swooning into an ardent lech’s bed.

However they’d put it, it’d all meant the same in the end: the rich thought they could buy the body of the boy who worked on their boats just as easily as they bought his and his father’s time and labour. None of them had been too happy to find that all their wealth, all their insincere words and wooing, got them exactly _ nowhere _with Will, and more than a few had retaliated by making sure that work in that area had mysteriously dried up overnight, forcing the Grahams to move on to find the next paycheque.

Down - the pads of Lecter’s fingers follow the line of Will’s collarbone down, slow as a man testing the keenness along the length of a blade. “You’ve never modelled for me.”

Will can feel his eyebrows rising. “_You _ are not a Master.”

“I won an internship at John Hopkins because of my anatomical drawings.”

“Of course you did,” says Will, and rolls away from Lecter so he can flop on his back and look at the dark blue ceiling, hands folded over his stomach. The move has the added benefit of giving him a _ reason _for not meeting Lecter’s eyes (rather than simply seeming very invested in the other man’s forehead), though Lecter’s hand follows him down and spreads warm heat high on his sternum, his wrist pressed incidentally to Will’s skin in a lazy, beta-weak but inevitable, scent-mark. “Well done. Still doesn’t mean you get to sculpt my ass out of marble.”

“We could start with clay,” Lecter suggests, sounding amused by Will's stubbornness, and pursues like the relentless bastard he is, propping himself up on his elbow beside Will and pressing their bodies close again. He is so _ long, _all over, the breadth of his shoulders blocking out Will’s line of sight to the door. He hadn't seemed so long in his suit, but here? Naked? Lecter is one long leonine stretch of heat.

“So you can go all _ Ghost _ on me? No thanks.”

“Sketches in graphite then, to immortalise your beauty.” Will isn’t going to look at Lecter. He isn’t. He can _ feel _ the bastard grinning at the corner of his eye, surprisingly crooked teeth flashing behind that smile. “You, languorous, like this, the lights turned low to shadows and diamonds sparkling around your neck.” Lecter’s touch slides higher again, the v between forefinger and thumb hooking possessively under the bob of Will’s throat. Pushing _just enough_ against resistance for Will to feel it. “Your head tipped back, lips parted on a sigh..."

Will swallows under the weight of that hand, of Lecter’s vision, his lips parting reflexively and pulse beating loud in his ears.

_ “I want you to draw me like one of your French girls.” _

Will chokes. He isn’t sure himself if it’s from laughter or outrage but his expression must be a wonder, because Lecter’s chest rumbles with mirth beside him. The sound reverberates from him to Will in all the places they touch, resonating through Will’s blood and bones and all but demanding an answering bark of laughter from him.

Lecter grips his chin and turns Will’s face towards him to steal the sound before Will has finished laughing, smile against smile and Will’s stomach flipping itself over as Lecter pushes his tongue into Will’s mouth. Will moans, deep and rough, and one of his hands flies to Lecter’s nape to grip at the fine mussed strands of Lecter’s hair as the other man kisses him slow and thorough, drawing back only when they need to breathe.

He doesn’t go far, noticeably half-hard against Will’s thigh and his hot breaths still spilling over Will’s lips. His gaze, a deep maroon in shadow, stays set in its study of Will’s face.

Will pants in reply, every ragged breath drawing more of the scent of Lecter’s silvery, spicy cologne into his lungs, his eyes barely open and his hand still woven thoughtlessly in Lecter’s hair. God, Lecter isn’t the only one whose prick is still interested, Will’s well on its way to full mast and smearing sticky wetness across his hip. “...I didn’t figure you for a _ Titanic _fan.”

“Were we only able to reference those things with artistic merit, we would have very few topics to discuss between us at all.”

The corners of Lecter’s eyes crinkle, half a beat too slow, when Will laughs again. It’s only an escaped huff of air, but it’s enough.

Will can’t remember the last bedpartner of his who made him laugh so much - hell, he can’t remember the last _ person _ who made him laugh so much, whether they fucked or not -, but he can’t shake off the vague feeling that Lecter is... _ experimenting _with him.

Nothing so banal as experimenting with his own sexuality - Lecter had seemed damn comfortable with reducing Will to all but begging before he’d fucked him open with his cock -, but trying different social approaches with Will: shifting through shades of horny, romantic, funny, and intellectual. Trialling different methods of interaction to find out what does and doesn’t stick.

Lecter’s pushing, like he’d pushed in Jack’s office, like they hadn’t, since then, held a dying girl’s neck together with nothing but their bloody hands.

The way Lecter is conducting his examination - that he's even conducting an examination _at all _right now - suggests a calculated, emotional withdrawal from the situation that rankles Will by steadily increasing increments. Will has never enjoyed being some psychiatrist’s guinea-pig, least of all in the _ bedroom, _ but it’s especially insulting because, _damn him, _Lecter is doing it well. Will might be annoyed but he’s charmed by many of the facets of Lecter's personality being shown to him despite himself - and still aroused, letting out a slow breath when Lecter dips his head again to press slow open-mouthed kisses under his jaw.

Curious how things can work on you even when you recognise them.

Will shifts slightly, flushing pink up from his collarbones when he only realises afterwards that he has instinctively tipped his head to give Lecter more room to kiss his throat, offering up the throb of his scent gland where his shoulder meets his neck. “...Right now I’m sympathising less with Rose and more with the iceberg. _ You _ can be the ship.”

Lecter’s chuckle has teeth, pressed light to the tendons of Will’s neck but scraping enough to make him shiver. “Are we destined for a collision?”

“You’re destined to get a new hole ripped out of you if you keep this heading,” Will warns him.

That causes Lecter to pause, lifting his head. He looks, Will is annoyed to note, possibly even _ more _fascinated than before, a cat watching a bird on the other side of a window. “What a delightfully vicious creature you are.”

“Masochist.”

“Hedonist,” Lecter corrects him, and his smile gleams like a particularly pleased wolf’s. Post-grandma. “I choose to embrace_ all _ of life’s sensations, however they may present themselves.”

_ “Sado_masochist,” Will graciously amends, and leans upwards to bite that smile, dragging Lecter’s lower lip between his teeth.

The noise Lecter makes into his mouth at that is filthy, and his hips thrust once, instinctively, against Will’s thigh. _Please._ Yes.

Will’s free hand grips at Lecter’s shoulder for leverage, down over the curve of his back, only for his palm to slip through something thick and faintly tacky. When he lifts his hand again to stare at it in confusion, kiss broken, it comes back marked with red.

“...The fuck?”

“Ah,” says Lecter, “they appear to be bleeding again.”

_ “‘They’?_” Will demands, so Lecter sits up beside him on the bed, twisting to show Will the smooth golden line of his back.

Red scratches, still beading with fresh blood, mar Lecter’s shoulder blades, a set of four distinct lines on either side of his spine. They are deepest at their base, growing lighter as they branch out to Lecter’s shoulders and eventually turning to raised welts.

“Did I-?” Will starts before he catches himself. _ Stupid question. _ When he brings his hand closer to his eyes, he can see dried blood under his nails. “Christ. Sorry.”

“No apology is necessary.” Lecter has the indecency to look terribly smug about his wounds, the twist of his mouth barely hidden by his shoulder when he looks back over it at Will. “One might almost consider them the sign of a job well done.”

One can go and fuck himself, in Will’s humble opinion, if one is so determined to bask in his own arrogance.

Will sits up, tucking his heels in to rest cross-legged. “This was a terrible idea.”

“Is that so?” asks Lecter. Mildly. His gaze flickers down at Will’s lap - and Will’s hard-on, which has defiantly missed the memo that Will is too annoyed to fuck Lecter now. On principle. Again. “You do not appear to be entirely convinced.”

Will colours, and grabs for the nearest loose sheet to haul over his waist. 

“Some hesitance is to be expected,” Lecter continues blithely, turning around on the bed again. He’s absolutely shameless in his own nakedness - and really, Will grudgingly concedes, trying - and failing - not to ogle anew at Lecter’s miles of toned gold skin, he has nothing to be ashamed _ about. _ The psychiatrist had been hiding some serious musculature under his weirdly-patterned suits, his chest furred with ashy silver and his gorgeously broad shoulders tapering to a sinfully sharp waist. His cock, thick and dusky red with blood, still beading pearly wetness at its tip, is _ made _for riding, flushing darker when Will’s gaze drops to it and twitching upwards to Lecter’s belly. “I cannot recall the last time that I leapt so suddenly into an affair.”

“This is not an _ affair,_” Will snaps, driven both by irritation at Lecter and irritation at himself because he can’t get his own cock under control and his ass is _ still _dribbling slick onto the mattress. The box of beta condoms, some part of his brain unhelpfully reminds him, is still sitting within reach on the bedside cabinet. “Hell, it’s barely a one-night stand.” Corrects himself - “One-afternoon stand.”

“...I see.” Lecter’s voice sheds the warmth of its mirth and turns cool, a coldness one cotton sheet does nothing to protect Will from. There lies the injured ego. “Are you prone to one-afternoon stands, Will, or was I the exception chosen so that I could no longer ethically psychoanalyse you in an official capacity?”

“Well,” says Will. That answer feels _ something _like the truth, something close to an explanation for Will’s motives in going to bed with Lecter - even if it isn’t the full story. Lecter is probably owed a little of the truth, despite his probing manipulations. For Abigail. “You’re not the first.”

“One-afternoon stand, or therapist you’ve bedded to avoid further scrutiny? ...Not just therapists,” Lecter realises slowly, even as he asks the question. One eyebrow arches, and Will cannot tell if the man is impressed or not when he breathes, “My, my, Professor Graham. Such devious methods for one trusted with instructing the bright young hopefuls of the FBI.”

Will won't be shamed for using people to wound their own chances to use _him. _“The supreme art is to subdue the enemy without fighting.”

“The Art of War.” Lecter tips his head just barely, just _ so_, a thoughtful, almost alien, cant that sets a thrum of warning bells thrilling through Will’s nerves. This man - “With your kind of calculation, perhaps Machiavelli might be a better fit for your machinations than Sun Tzu? _ Non tentare mai di vincere con la forza ciò che può essere vinta con l'inganno.” _

Will waits, crumpling the sheet in his lap with two fists. He should be getting out of the bed now. He should. Lecter is far too savvy for comfort, sliding his way into the way Will thinks with a sharpness keen as a scalpel, and Will should never have clutched at him looking for comfort and distraction, even if, by that same action, it had helped to push Dr. Hannibal Lecter firmly away. There would have been other - better, safer, less _ complicated _\- ways; Will is nothing if not skilled in the many fine arts of getting people to fuck off.

Will needs to get out the bed and put this afternoon behind him before it gets messier than it already is. Leave the sex as a happy but distant memory - that he will jack off to for possibly the rest of his life. He can go home and drown his sorrows about losing access to such fine dick with a bottle of whiskey and seven sympathetic dogs.

Lecter’s gentle hand reaches out to cup his jaw and Will finds himself hopelessly leaning into it, a warm thumb stroking distractingly over his cheekbone. “Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.”

“Of _ course _you speak Italian,” Will sighs, clutching at Lecter’s wrist with both hands, and lets his eyes flutter shut again lest they have gone a soft and incriminating omega gold.

Everyone’s pupils dilate when they’re aroused, but alphas and omegas must suffer the further tell of their irises shifting hue as well.

Lecter’s deep chuckle touches something visceral in Will’s stomach, another caress as physical as his hand on Will’s face. “Unrepentantly.”

“No, I don’t think you repent much, do you?”

There is the soft secret sound of flesh sliding against hideously expensive cloth, and the mattress dips by Will’s body. “I have another if you’re interested,” Lecter murmurs directly to Will’s pulse, his hot breath skating once more over Will’s throat and his free hand spanning over the width of one of Will’s thighs.

“Spare me the Italia_nnn _-” Will’s words break, artless, when Lecter’s tongue licks up his jugular, that mouth he is becoming overfamiliar with taking back his mouth and plundering it ruthlessly. Holds him in place with that grip around his jaw.

That hand on Will’s thigh slides slowly, dangerously higher, all but burning Will through the thin barrier of the bedsheet, and Will has to break the kiss because he is dizzy in the darkness behind his eyes, his chest heaving for breath and his body swaying treacherously close to Lecter’s solid breadth of heat.

“Ah-”

Lecter kisses him again, hard and quick, and his eyes swim like burning coals when Will manages to pry apart his eyelids to look at him, the scant view of the bedroom beyond Lecter lost to haze. Will feels scorched to the core. “Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are.”

Their legs are pressed together now. Arms, limbs, fingers, hair. Blood. Sweat. Slick. Scents intertwined.

“I,” Will croaks, dropping his gaze to Lecter’s nose but all too aware of Lecter’s still watching him fiercely, fondly, fingers and thumb pulling almost playfully at his ear, “need to use your shower, and then I should probably get going.”

Watching Lecter’s nose, Will can see the beta’s smile as it begins, stretching slow and wide and creasing the corners of Lecter’s cheeks. “My shower is yours for the using, but, unless you have somewhere that you urgently need to be, I do insist that you stay for dinner. Since we missed the promised lunch.” When that smile moves closer again, Will - finally - manages to tilt his head just enough that Lecter’s lips brush his cheek rather than helping themselves to another kiss from Will’s swollen mouth again - but the good doctor is undeterred, and seems just as happy to nuzzle Will there instead, nose dragging teasingly down into the scruff of Will’s stubble. “It would be terribly remiss of me to allow a guest to leave my home hungry.”

“Dinner,” says Will flatly, his head tipped just enough to note the bright _ afternoon _sunbeams coming in through the pale, fine muslin of Lecter’s day curtains.

“You are familiar with the concept, I hope?”

Probably not in the same manner that Dr. My-Average-Annual-Income-Could-Probably-Fund-A-Small-Foreign-Nation Hannibal Lecter means it, no. Will has the feeling that a man who brings his own tupperware on a not-too-fancy FBI field trip - just so he can make and cart around his own cooking rather than broach the plebeian landscape of the local greasy spoon - is not the sort of guy who finds slapping the leftovers of yesterday’s Mexican takeaway in the microwave for a few minutes and then scarfing it down before hitting the pillows an acceptable use of the word ‘dinner’.

“Well,” Will concedes, because his last significant meal was breakfast and coffee and a toasted bacon sandwich can only last him so far before he swoons on Lecter for an even _ more _embarrassing reason than he’s been doing so far already, “it beats getting kicked out of bed before the afterglow has even faded.”

“Your previous bedpartners have not been ones to have you linger?” Lecter actually sounds somewhat offended on Will’s behalf, which is. Strange. Nice, but strange. “A shame. I believe that the best things in life should be savoured thoroughly.”

Will had rather assumed that, given his mouth is still kiss-bruised and sensitive like an over-ripened fruit, tingling when he lifts his fingers thoughtfully to his lips. “So I see.”

The crook of Lecter’s mouth suggests he knows _ exactly _what Will is thinking, a rogue’s grin pressed to Will’s knuckles just enough for the dried blood still there to flake onto Lecter’s fuller lower lip. Small spots smear to wet red rust. “Dinner then?”

“Dinner,” Will agrees, still staring beneath his lashes at Lecter’s bloody mouth. Half a beat, “And until dinner?”

There is no surprise when Will is pushed back gently onto the mattress, Lecter’s palm on his chest and a light strain gathering itself between the muscles of Will’s thighs and the small of his back. From the cradle of a mound of soft and expensive pillows, Will does his best to look unimpressed when his bedpartner pretty much crawls all over him, but the task is an impossible one with hot skin pressed so close and shifting limbs losing Will’s protective sheet to the side. Their erections rub together for a moment in tantalising promise, and Will’s hands fly upwards to grip into the thick strands of hair that cover Lecter’s broad chest, something like a guttural moan catching in the back of his throat.

Lecter has his arms braced either side of Will’s head - blocking Will’s lines of sight in such a way that all Will can think whenever he dares to try and look away from Lecter’s face is _ God, his muscles _ -, his hair hanging over his brow in devastating disarray. All Will can feel and breathe and see is Hannibal Lecter.

“This is a one-afternoon stand, Will, is it not?” The ass looks pleased with himself again, and is shamelessly letting Will _ see _ that he is pleased with himself when Will knows Lecter has enough control over his facial expressions to hide his feelings should he wish to. He’s deliberately being _ infuriating, _ and Will still slides his legs out from their cross-legged position for him anyway, letting Lecter’s weight descend between his thighs and on Will more fully. They both groan, and Will arches up from the mattress to earn that sound from Lecter again, taking _ great _pleasure at the sight of the beta’s fraying composure. “There is still a great deal of the afternoon left to be enjoyed.”

“Don’t waste it talking,” Will advises Lecter bluntly, and smiles sharp at the way Lecter laughs throatily, teeth flashing in that smile of his again. The kiss he presses briefly against Will’s sweaty temple, however, is almost fond - but Will has little time to think on it, for Lecter dips his head and seizes Will’s mouth savagely again straight afterwards, the kiss rough until Will softens beneath him, goes pliant and yields for conquest.

His lips still taste like blood.

  


*****

  


When Will next stirs, it’s evening. Lecter, already awake, showered and dressed before him, directs him to the en suite and then disappears after informing Will that dinner will be ready in approximately half an hour.

It doesn’t take Will that long to shower - honestly, he probably spends more time gawking at the size of Lecter’s spacious shower and trying to figure out what each of the myriad bottles and jars on the shelf are for, their labels (_if _they’re even labelled) unfamiliar and often in a foreign language. Eventually, Will grabs something that both smells relatively inoffensive and that he hopes is body wash and gives himself a good scrub down in the lather, the steam around him quickly filled with the scent of woody, musky lavender.

He’s still trailing that scent behind him after he’s dried, dressed in his crumpled clothing, and made his way downstairs, his hair still a little damp and clinging to the back of his neck. Dr. Lecter’s house is maze-like but the main staircases are easy enough to find, and Will follows his nose to the kitchen when the smell of cooking meat overcomes the scent of body wash still clinging to his skin.

The kitchen continues the house’s overall theme of ostentation, though its opulence seems less Asian-inspired than the bedroom. The sharp edges however, persist, though the shining stainless steel of Lecter’s tools and appliances and the cool travertine of his countertops are softened a little by contrast with pale barn wood along one wall, cabinetry made with warmer - but more dramatically grained - wood opposite. There are grey leather panels on the kitchen island and there is a low, squishy chair set in the corner of the room: a good place from which to survey the whole kitchen and the hallway Will had just walked along, including the narrow set of servants’ stairs that Will had somehow missed on his way downstairs.

With the blinds over the windows and door pulled to half-mast, the kitchen feels like its own gleaming, self-contained kingdom, and there is no question who is its king. Notably dressed in a pressed red shirt and trousers like he _ hadn’t _just spent all afternoon in bed, standing at the stovetop on the kitchen island and simmering something in a pan, Dr. Lecter is the epicentre of the room’s blend of smooth elegance and ruthless practicality and clearly master of all he surveys - including anyone who walks into his kitchen.

“You have a beautiful home, Dr. Lecter,” Will says, more as a statement of fact than as an intended compliment. Lecter’s interior decorating, he knows, is something that people would describe and effuse over as beautiful, if only because their vocabularies are limited by both politeness and a lack of understanding it enough to know what _ else _to call it.

Will feels disconnected from that concept. If he were to describe Lecter’s home as beautiful, speaking for himself rather than from a place of general consensus, the prevalent _ beautiful _that other people use would not be the one he meant - though saying as much could be considered rude, and, if there’s one thing various battleaxe matriarchs of Will's Southern upbringing had taught him (with the good solid smack of a wooden spoon to the hand or head), it’s that you don’t insult the one feeding you.

Lecter’s amused huff of air suggests that he hears at least some of the words Will doesn’t say, moving away from the stovetop to begin plating the cooked steaks on a board beside him. “Have you any allergies?”

“That may have been a prudent question to ask _ before _you turned up unannounced at my motel room with breakfast, doctor.” Or before Lecter had began to cook their evening meal. Aware that he sounds ungrateful, Will does his best to ease some of his bluntness - mostly because he’s hungry, and those steaks look incredible. “No, no allergies that I’m aware of.”

“Glad to hear it,” says Lecter. “Perhaps you might take through our wine and light the candles on the table? The matches are in the sideboard.”

Will grabs the wine decanter full of crimson liquid that Lecter tips his head towards and takes it through to the dimly-lit dining room, back the way he’d come. The table has already been set with glasses and cutlery at the head and to the head’s right, so Will places the decanter between the two and then goes to the sideboard.

The matches are where Lecter had said they’d be, but crouching down to get them puts Will on eye level with the top of the sideboard and perhaps the strangest ‘floral’ arrangement he’s seen outside the home of a Voodoo practitioner: a tower of birds’ feathers; quills; eggs; small stuffed animals, beetles and butterflies, and animal skulls and other tiny bones, all of it sitting atop of a long dried snakeskin. It’s so intricate and _ weird_, Will is tempted by the childish impulse to poke it - but doesn’t, because only idiots poke things that look like potential fetishes or talismans, and, if Will did, he’d probably send the whole lot spilling all over the floor.

In contrast to the wall of green and growing plants that take up one whole wall of the dining room, the table decoration is equally as dead as the… construct on the sideboard. Set atop a long table runner the same midnight blue shade as the moulding on two of the room’s walls, the centrepiece is a long, complicated twist of many small pieces of sharp, branching antlers sensuously locked together. Nestled around and between the points are vibrant red and yellow fall leaves and several fat, deep crimson candles, and Will almost draws blood reaching in amongst the antlers to light the latter, the bones sharp enough to scrape him through the fabric of his shirt.

In the dim, the candles glow deep warm gold and red, and they thrust sharp-edged shadows over the table and room where the antlers block their light. A silhouette play of woods and teeth and thorns. Wolfish wild things lurking in the gloom, and the little girls in red cloaks they feed upon.

Lecter arrives with their food whilst Will is still checking his arms for blood, nodding approvingly at the sight of the dancing candle flames. “Beautifully done, Will.”

“Lighting a few candles is hardly worth a compliment,” Will responds, hurriedly returning the matches to where he had found them so he can come back to the table. The head is Lecter’s seat, naturally, so Will stands behind the chair to Lecter’s right, his stomach rumbling quietly at the plate Hannibal places in front of him. “What’re we having?”

“Steak and sticky red wine shallots served with green beans.” Lecter is obviously pleased to be asked, pouring their wine as Will takes a seat and spreads his napkin over his lap. In a thin stream by candlelight, the wine is the same deep red as Lecter's shirt.

“Smells good,” Will offers.

He means it too; the meal on the plate in front of him smells as good as it looks, and Lecter has plated it impeccably. The steak takes pride of place on the china, with the deep maroon shallots and their delicious-looking dark red wine reduction spooned over its top. A helping of green beans pop at the side.

When Lecter sits down as well, Will raises his cutlery to slice into the steak. The meat is still a lovely deep pink on the inside, medium rare, and when Will forks a piece into his mouth he discovers it to be beautifully tender and flavorful, its juices bursting over his tongue. Will’s eyes flutter closed and he lets out a hum of absolute pleasure as he swallows - only to realise half a beat too late his hum has rounded itself off into a low, rich and _ entirely audible _purr.

Eyes flying open again, he colours, dropping his fork and clapping one hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

Purring so loudly and openly is, for an adult, something kept only for those one is emotionally close to: family, intimate friends, and partners. To do it in public without that connection is, depending on the context, either quite childish or sexually provocative, and Will had intended neither.

Rather than looking either amused or annoyed by Will’s _ faux pas, _Lecter looks like, were beta vocal chords capable of producing the same reverberations as an alpha’s or omega’s, he’d be purring right back at Will. The candlelight picks out the gold flecks in his dark eyes as he watches Will, half-lowered as they are like a particularly content cat’s. “Once more, you offer me the highest of praise, and then apologise for your generosity.”

“It’s good,” Will says a little defensively, still feeling flustered heat burning high in his cheeks and throat. He snatches up his glass to hide his face behind, taking a large gulp of the wine within. Dark and dry bittersweetness floods his mouth, heavy on the tannins, and Will has to do his best not to screw up his face at the taste of the unidentified wine: he much prefers whiskey.

“I’m pleased that you enjoy it,” Lecter replies graciously, and mercifully drops the subject to begin eating his own food.

Will puts down his wine to follow suit, not wanting his food to grow cold. He can feel eyes on him whilst he eats, but every time he lifts his gaze to glance at Lecter, the beta isn’t looking at him. Lecter _ does _look across from him when Will stares at him a few seconds too long, his gaze inquisitive as he reaches out to take a sip of his wine, but Will only shakes his head and ducks behind the fluff of his now-dry fringe, concentrating once more on his plate.

The next time Lecter’s eye catches his, both of them a good way through their dinner, Will deliberately lets his gaze drift past the doctor, looking to the pale forest landscape paper on the wall opposite his own seat and all the plants growing on shelves floating out of it. By candlelight, the branches of the forest could be moving, and the air tastes of smoke and meat and distant growing green things when Will breathes them in.

In a room decorated with dead things and dancing fire, a living wall is a little incongruous.

“I was wondering about the plants.”

“Herbs,” says Lecter, cutting another piece out of his steak and spearing it with his fork, “for my cooking. I find their aroma often enhances the flavours of the food. The environment, after all, is also part of the dining experience, and the best meals must embrace all the senses before they can be considered truly sublime.”

“Like how freshly-caught and cooked food always tastes better outdoors,” Will says, and tries not to look too long at Lecter’s lips when Lecter pops the piece of meat delicately in his mouth, teeth dragging just slightly along the silver fork’s tines.

Chews. Swallows.

“Just so. The taste and smell of the ingredients mixes with the scents of the outside world, the feeling of the wind on your skin and the heat of the fire you have just cooked your meal upon. The texture of the food in your mouth as the leaves crinkle and dance around you, the world set afire by autumn for your eyes.”

Will considers the words, reaching for his wine glass again and pressing the rim to his lips. The taste of the alcohol had improved after the first sip, its flavour mellowed by accompanying food and familiarity. Still, though it wets Will's mouth, it leaves him more thirsty afterwards for the drinking of it. “So it’s true then: hot cocoa really _ does _taste better in an orange mug?”

“And strawberry mousse tastes sweetest served on a white plate.” Will finishes the last few bites of his own food as Lecter talks, dragging half a green bean around his plate to soak up as much of the red wine reduction as possible before eating it. The last mouthful as good as the first. “Our senses affect each other more than most are aware they do, informing our perceptions at a subconscious level and constructing our associations and biases out of their endless cross-contaminations.”

“You perceive emotions to be a result of our combined senses, and not part of their decision-making process?” Will places his knife and fork together on his now empty plate, fiddling with their angle until he sees Lecter also set down his cutlery from the corner of his eye.

“Do you plan to extol to me the virtues of grandmother’s infamous cherry pie?”

“It was pecan pie, if you must know,” Will says somewhat wryly, flicking his gaze up at Lecter only long enough to confirm the amused twist is back at the corner of the other man’s mouth. Apparently, they have a similar sense of humour. “Only damn thing she could bake and bake well, so she always fed it to half the town.”

“You have fond memories attached to the dish,” Lecter observes, and Will tries not to be bothered by the way they both reach for their wine glasses at the same time. Coincidence, or more of Will’s eternal unconscious mimicry? “Tell me, Will, has any other pecan pie tasted the same?”

Will sips his drink. Shakes his head. “Nothing like it. I’ve eaten some better versions, and a great many worse. But emotionally? There’s no replacing it.”

“Affection is a placebo ingredient,” says Lecter agreeably, swirling his wine, though Will cannot imagine what the doctor’s face might do if someone attempted to justify terrible cooking to him with the trite _ it doesn’t matter what it tastes like when it’s made with love. _There is a curious shallowness to Will’s imagination when it comes to envisaging what Lecter might or might not do in any given situation. “But you are correct, of course. We are all, to one degree or another, affected by the perceptions of the world around us as we are by our own perceptions, with one influencing the other. Once emotion has been generated, it further prejudices our decisions, creating an eternally cycling feedback loop. Perhaps the cocoa tastes best because it is served in my favourite orange mug. Perhaps the orange mug is my favourite because it makes my cocoa tastes best.”

Lecter pauses, wetting his lips with another sip of his drink and licking them clean before asking, “Would you care for dessert?”

Will startles. “You had time to make dessert as well?”

“Leftovers, I’m afraid. I found myself unusually distracted this afternoon.” Placing down his wine again, Lecter rises from his seat and gathers their plates. 

Despite the change in angle, Will doesn’t miss the sly glance the doctor gives him with his words, and rolls his eyes. “Can I help in any way?” Will might not dine with others very often, but even he knows that it’s bad form to let the one who did the cooking do the washing up as well.

Lecter is already on his way back to the kitchen, the smile aimed over his shoulder at Will a perfect, genial thing. “As you are my guest, I insist you stay precisely where you are.”

“You insist upon a great deal, Dr. Lecter.”

“And such arduous tasks I set you.”

Will makes a face at Lecter’s back before it disappears around the corner to the kitchen, if only because, well, the things Lecter insists upon _ aren’t _arduous at all - getting wonderfully fucked, and fed fantastic food afterwards -, but Will is still left with the niggling feeling he’s both imposing and being imposed upon somehow.

Though that could just be Dr. Lecter’s gracefully domineering personality; the beta is clearly someone who is accustomed to getting his own way.

Will occupies himself by pouring them both more wine, giving himself a smaller amount so he should still be safe to drive home after the meal. Lecter is taking long enough in the kitchen Will knows he’s going to be presented with something that looks like it ought to be served in the kind of exclusive restaurant that doesn’t cater to the strained budgets of FBI Academy professors’ budgets (again), but he’s _ still _surprised when Lecter returns and places a small, rectangular plate down in front of him, the wedge of dark chocolate-covered tart atop it looking too perfect to be real. Orange zest has been grated over the chocolate surface, bright orange against brown, and more of the peel is distributed through the quenelle of cream carefully nestled up against the tart’s side with a fresh slice of orange.

“Dark chocolate orange ricotta tart with a honey almond crust,” Lecter announces, already retaking his seat.

He had rolled up his sleeves sometime during his return to the kitchen and has forgotten to roll them back down again, his arms exposed to the elbows and utterly distracting. The hair along the back of them gleams in the candlelight, and, when the muscles shift under the skin, all Will can think about is the _ last _time he had seen those muscles flexing for him, bearing Lecter’s weight as Lecter had moved above Will in bed.

“This is what your _ leftovers _look like?” Will asks him with some disbelief, voice halfway to cracking, because he’s spent long enough already that afternoon with his mind in the gutter and should really focus on the topics that allow him to find a change of mental scenery. North of the belt-line. Omegas his age aren't supposed to get so many erections in one day outside of heat, _surely?_

“The cream is fresh,” says Lecter, as though he actually thinks Will may be complaining about being served leftover food.

Will can’t summon up the energy required to explain his point _and _control his libido at the same time so settles for just eating his dessert, the tart’s chocolate shell breaking under pressure from his spoon with a quiet, mouth-watering _ crack_. The layer of orange ricotta filling underneath is rich and creamy, and, were Will not already forewarned by his earlier weakness and guarding his reactions, Will would probably be purring at the taste of it.

Lecter seems to be waiting for just that reaction. He’s quite open about the way he’s watching Will eat, and only very slowly drops his gaze when Will glances up and catches him at it, a thread of obvious laughter in the lines around his mouth his response to Will’s glower. Will would like to dump the tart on Lecter’s head for the presumption but, unfortunately, the tart is as delicious as the main course had been. Perhaps even more so, and especially for the novelty. Will rarely has the opportunity to eat dessert (twinkies and granola bars eaten in a hurry on the road or between classes as a replacement for a solid meal don’t count); he doesn’t go out much for meals or entertain at his house, and the time, skill and effort necessary to make dessert for one at home make the endeavour hardly worth its reward.

Will clears his plate with a speed and voracity that is probably rude, licking his lips and teeth for the remnants of cream and stray crumbs of honeyed almonds. Unwilling to intrude upon the quiet between them, he slowly drinks his wine as Lecter finishes his slice of tart, the delicate _ clink _of Lecter’s spoon touching plate breaking Will out of the reverie of watching the candlelight refract through his glass.

“That was delicious,” he says quietly, “thank you.”

Lecter accepts the compliment with a gracious dip of the head. “It was my pleasure, Will, truly.” A pause for Lecter to sip his own wine. “I have more left of the tart. Would you like to take it home with you?”

Will opens his mouth to protest - they’re not friends, and the gesture smacks too much of charity for comfort - but Lecter beats him to the punch.

“You would be doing me a favour, as it is taking up some much-needed space in my fridge. And you seem to have enjoyed it.” That alone would not have been enough, but Lecter softens his proposition with humour, a callback to their earlier conversation: “Will, I _ insist._”

And so, dinner over, Will ends up standing by Lecter’s open front door with his jacket on and a box thrust into his arms, a half-empty tart pan and a small tub of the orange cream bumping softly against its insides when Will moves. Flushed from embarrassment and wine.

He can’t believe Lecter gave him the cream as well.

“Dr. Lecter -”

Fingers beneath Will’s chin firmly tip his head upwards, and his words die swiftly under the brief pressure of a kiss at the corner of his parted lips.

Withdrawing just enough to better see Will’s face, Lecter regards Will with all the doting pride of a new dog owner whose puppy has just got through a night for the first time without peeing on the carpet. Indulgent. “Thank you for the pleasure of your company this afternoon, Will.”

Outside of the fucking, Will’s not too sure how much of a _ pleasure _ he’s been, but Lecter had seemed entertained throughout. Though that may have something to do with the way Will is still gawking unattractively at the beta, having not expected… that. Any of _ that. _ Another scorcher of a kiss to the _ mouth, _maybe, making out against the wall, but not the sweet, shockingly familiar little peck he’d given Will, Will’s lips and cheek tingling from the soft sensation of Lecter’s mouth against them.

Or perhaps Will is just going red again, flushing like a damn schoolboy getting his first kiss. God _ damn _it.

“...Yeah,” he manages eventually, dumbly, swallowing spit. Tart case and tub going _thump-thump _inside the box in his grasp when he shifts from one foot to the other: the Tell-Tale Heart. “Yeah, uh. You too. It was something.”

In a rush of what can only be described as either his common sense _ finally _kicking in (hours too late for it to be of any use) or cowardice, Will all but flees for his car. Without saying goodbye. Lecter, of course, stays standing in his doorway smiling his infuriatingly unreadable smile as Will dumps the dessert down on the seat beside him and buckles up, raising one hand in a casual farewell as Will pulls away from his house and puts the man as far behind him as quickly as Baltimore’s roads and traffic laws will allow.

Will won’t be able to avoid ever seeing Hannibal Lecter again, he knows. They both haunt Abigail’s hospital room too often for that, and Lecter's now on the consultancy list for the FBI. If Jack pulls Will in on another case when Will gets back to work, it’s likely that their paths will cross again sooner or later. But this afternoon - _ well. _ Aside from being a fantastic distraction from Hobbs, this afternoon has firmly closed off some of the avenues Lecter can saunter down that feature Will as the destination at the end, leaving a few less routes for Will to keep his eye upon.

Lecter had been a great lay, but there’s too much going on behind his eyes that Will can’t reach for them to keep up a frequent acquaintanceship. The sex and food and laughter are to be firmly kept for reminiscence _ only, _ because with a man like Lecter? Getting fucked could rapidly turn to getting fucked _ over. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chaud-froid:_ (hot-cold) A French term describing a meat or fish dish that is first cooked and then chilled before eating, served in its own jelly or a sauce.
> 
> _Curious how things can work on you even when you recognise them._ \- Thomas Harris’ words, lifted directly from _The Silence of the Lambs_
> 
> [A reminder of what Hannibal’s ‘floral arrangement’ looks like on his dining room sideboard.](https://twitter.com/bryanfuller/status/332695406624509953) Are there even any flowers in there? Seriously, Hannibal.
> 
> [Hot chocolate/cocoa tastes better in an orange (or cream!) cup.](https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/254638.php)
> 
> Recipes (chosen for time constraints and because they’re made using traditional aphrodisiacs; Will, please look at your dinner and the red candles and get a clue):  
[Steak and sticky red wine shallots](https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/3368/steak-and-sticky-red-wine-shallots)  
[Dark chocolate orange ricotta tart with honey almond crust](https://cupcakesandkalechips.com/chocolate-orange-tart-honey-almond-crust/)  
Hannibal paired the food with a cabernet sauvignon, but Will didn’t care enough to note it and, surprisingly, what kind of wine they were drinking was the one thing Hannibal _didn’t_ want to go off on a tangent about as I was writing this chapter. (Why, oh why, can the man never shut up…?)


	2. bouchée

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will faces an ambush when he returns to work, and receives an apology at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for all your kind words and kudos on the first chapter! Honestly, they mean more than I can say.

Will had been tired even before he’d made it to his first class after his break. As soon as he’d set foot on Academy grounds he’d been swamped by people trying to talk to him and congratulatory backslapping, and his class’ standing ovation upon his entrance? After all that? Had not been appreciated. There’s something so _ tasteless _about one man receiving praise for putting another man down, especially when only dumb luck and gut instinct had gotten Will there. A dead woman. An orphaned girl in a coma. And ten bullets.

Even after hours of practice, Will is still haunted by the spectre of Garret Jacob Hobbs at the shooting range, and ten bullets on target won’t scrub out the maggot of him eating into Will’s brain. Nor another ten bullets, or ten more after that. Hobbs is under Will’s skin now, his blood soaked through Will’s pores, and applauding that? No. _ No. _ Let the echoes die and let that be an end to _ everything _ about the Minnesota Shrike, no matter what Jack thinks - _ erroneously - _about Abigail Hobbs helping her father. So when that poor girl wakes up she can find some way to move on with her life, and so the dead can rest in their graves and not in Will’s bloody red dreams at night. Nor, as the shooting range proves, in Will's shadow during the day.

Class is dismissed and Will is glad of it, shutting down the projector and moving to immediately put his things away. Lecturing on the Shrike is an exercise in bitter autoflagellation and, thanks to his current class schedule and the FBI’s insistence on course study materials being as fresh and relevant for their trainees as possible, Will gets to do this exact same lecture twice more before moving onto it in piecemeal due to the copycat.

(Every time, Will finds himself going from looking at photographs of the scene to standing in the Hobbs’ sunlight-filled kitchen, the floor covered in scarlet and his gun shaking in his hands. Abigail is dying, always dying, on the linoleum, her blue eyes wide and teary and ringed with fear-stricken gold, crimson lifeblood pumping out of the slash on her neck. The air tastes bitter-metallic-_sour_, like distressed omega, like iron and gunpowder and screams.

_ “See?” _ whispers Hobbs. A dead man talking. A swarm of flies. _ “See?” _)

A few more of Will’s students linger behind than usually do, clearly wanting to talk to their professor about his ‘celebrity’ serial killer catch, but Will ignores them all as he usually does, keeping his head down and continuing to pack his bag. If they have a question relevant to the work he’s set them or their studies, they have his email and his office hours. If they’re just looking for a story, Will is refusing interviews.

Dr. Alana Bloom is a breath of fresh air as she breezes past the chattering loiterers, the click of her heels in their familiar pace on the floor marking her arrival. She doesn’t touch any of the trainees as she enters the classroom but they take her gentle beta presence as their cue to slowly disperse, drifting away from Will’s desk like dandelion seeds caught on a lazy wind.

“Hi,” Will offers when he catches sight of her over the frames of his glasses. He’s never too busy to talk to her - a friend in need, and all that. Will is - _ lamentably_, as his pride likes to remind him on the more emotionally crushing occasions - available for most things, nearly _ all _things, for Alana Bloom. If Alana would like to take him up on them sometime. Any time?

Or not.

Will leaves his bag and comes around the desk to speak with her.

“How are you, Will?” Alana is clutching her hands. Alana is clutching at her hands, and the tension in her forearms suggests she’s just a little shy of wringing them.

“Uh, I have no idea.” Will doesn’t know if he’s smiling or grimacing at the question, and rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck. It’s good to be back at work, doing something he knows he’s good at, but. Work has _ people, _ and the constant gushing about the Minnesota Shrike is fraying Will’s patience. 

One benefit of keeping his gaze low by default is that Will gets to do a slow glance up whoever he’s speaking to, and Alana is always a particular delight. Her skirt is red, her shirt black and white, and her dark hair gleams in the bald classroom lighting like curls of polished rosewood. She’s… tense for some reason, but not stressed, not upset. It’s something closer to nerves.

Nerves can be good. If it’s nervous anticipation, rather than dread.

“Um,” says Alana, and bites her lip. She’s fumbling for her words, and it’s charming.

A pinprick of hope flutters in Will’s chest. Momentous events in an individual’s life often cause the people around them to re-evaluate their own priorities, _ momento mori, _ and Will wouldn’t mind Alana doing some re-evaluations about their friendship. Mostly in the ways they could _ develop _ that friendship. It isn’t socially conventional for a beta woman to get romantically involved with an omega man, not without an alpha also being brought into the mix somehow (or in _ desperate times, _a beta man), but Alana isn’t the kind of person to let convention dictate her choices. It’s one of the reasons they get along so well.

“I didn’t want you to be ambushed -”

“Is this an ambush?” Amused, Will’s smile emerges more easily the second time around, and he leans back comfortably on his desk. Inviting.

Alana isn’t eased. “Ambush is later. Immediately later. Soon-to-now.” She’s speaking more quickly, her words tripping over themselves as she rubs one thumb over her half-closed fingers. And Will, his smile dying, can see why: behind her, through the doorway his students are still streaming out of, Jack Crawford is approaching like a ram with the largest horns in the field. _ Great. _ “When Jack arrives, consider yourself ambushed.”

“Here’s Jack,” Will says shortly, and lets his little pinprick of hope smother itself.

Jack stops beside Alana, the both of them forming a wide obstacle to the exit. By the way they eye each other up, it’s clear they’ve been talking before this, both agreeing on some overall point but evidently disagreeing on the finer details.

Primarily, about which one of them was going to speak to Will first.

Will _ isn’t _going to enjoy this conversation.

“How was class?” Jack asks, as though he cares about Will’s _ teaching. _ Alana had covered many of Will’s classes whilst he’d been away, and she’d let slip that Jack had been by during class hours more than a few times to see if Will had decided to come back to work early. Wanting something.

Will slides off his desk, and goes back to packing his bag. His students have all gone now, and it’s gotten less pleasant sitting up front there with Jack’s casually dominant presence added to the atmosphere. Jack’s heavy alpha scent easily overwhelms the light, sweet violet-anise smell of Alana’s perfume that Will had been enjoying mixed with his own scent in the air - something Will hardly notices most of the time, except when it’s gone.

“They applauded. It was inappropriate.” To say the least.

“The review board begs to differ.” Jack’s caught somewhere between pride, joviality, and smugness, pleased at being proven right for hauling Will out of his classroom in the first place. No matter what Alana had to say about it at the time - and every time she’d seen Jack during Will’s enforced leave. “You’re up for a commendation and they’ve okayed active return to the field.”

Alana stands her ground and leaps in whilst Will is still processing that and the little flicker of pleasure it gives him, his fingers pausing on the zip of his bag. “Question is: do you _ want _to go back in the field?”

“_I _ want him back in the field,” Jack says - to Alana, rather than Will. Apparently Will’s opinion doesn’t matter here, the _ adults _talking over his head. It would be insulting if they were doing it because Will’s an omega - except it’s obviously got nothing to do with dynamics. Instead, it’s insulting because they both think they know what’s best for Will. “And I’ve told the board I’m recommending a psych evaluation.”

A psych evaluation. Will looks at Alana, hurt despite himself and her soft, apologetic eyes. _ How are you, Will? _ really _ is _ just another wording of _ And how does that make you feel? _ “Are we starting now?” 

Alana almost startles, quickly explaining, “Oh, the session wouldn’t be with me.”

“Hannibal Lecter’s a better fit,” says Jack, and that’s wonderful. Now he and Alana are backing each other up, and they’ve picked the worst time and thing possible to do it about. “Your relationship’s not personal. But if you _ are _more comfortable with Dr. Bloom…”

Jack really _ is _ going out of his way to ignore just how much Will hates - and how much Will has _ publicised _ that hate of - 99.9% (recurring) of all psychiatrists. _ After recommending a psych eval in the first place. _ And of all the psychiatrists he knows, that he knows Will knows, that the FB-fucking-I has on their payroll, both permanent and temporary consultancy-wise, Jack’s landed on _ Lecter _ for Will’s psych eval.

Lecter, who actually _ can’t _ do the evaluation because Will has slept with him. Lecter, who Will has been deliberately avoiding since their ill-advised hook-up a week ago. Will has been visiting Abigail at the hospital in the late night, well outside of visiting hours (one of the perks of a Special Agent badge), knowing that Lecter very likely wouldn’t be there then. He’d said he didn’t want to cross paths with Lecter again if he could help it and he’d _ meant _that (although it hadn’t stopped him from devouring the leftover tart and orange cream Lecter had given him, a slice each evening with a glass of whiskey until the dessert was all gone).

His hurt now edged with anger, Will finishes zipping up his bag and grabs it, snapping, “_No, _ I’m not going to be comfortable with anyone inside my head.” And Will isn’t going to give anyone the opportunity to pry their way in there; he’s been prodded at quite enough in his life already, thanks, no thanks. “Besides -”

“You’ve never killed anyone before, Will,” Alana protests, ignoring the sharp metallic note rising in Will’s scent along with his temper. Even _ Will _can smell it on himself through his aftershave, a taste like lightning catching at the roof of his mouth. “It’s a deadly force encounter. It’s a lot to digest.”

“I used to work homicide,” Will grits out, striding out from behind his desk with long enough steps that the way he goes around Jack and Alana looks natural, bag in one hand.

Jack’s voice halts him before the exit. “Reason you _ used _to work homicide is that you couldn’t stomach pulling the trigger.” Will turns on his heel, not caring at all now for the scowl on his face. “You just pulled the trigger ten times.”

And what he sees in Jack’s expression - “Wait, so a psych eval _ isn’t _ a formality?”

Jack is _ demanding _ this. It’s not just ticking off the boxes, crossing the _ t_s and dotting the _ i_s. Jack Crawford thinks Will needs a psychological evaluation.

Jack Crawford thinks Will needs psychiatric _ assistance. _

“No,” says Jack, “it’s so I can get some sleep at night. I asked you to get close to the Hobbs thing. I need to know you didn’t get too close.” Changes tack, just enough to put Will on the indignant back foot. “How many nights did you spend in Abigail Hobbs’ hospital room, Will?”

God forbid Will treat one of Jack’s _ suspects _with anything more than absolute distrust.

How many nights is Will _ still _spending in Abigail Hobbs’ hospital room? It’s soothing, in the darkness, listening to the machines around her. Listening to her heartbeat. Listening to her breathe. Her father didn’t kill her. Will didn’t kill her, his mind haunted by the ghost of her father’s psyche. She’s alive.

Will wants to explain exactly none of this to Jack. “Therapy doesn’t work on me,” he says. Jaw set. Tone flat.

Jack hums disbelievingly and approaches him, step by firm determined step. _ Deliberately _trying to overcome the anger scent Will is still loudly exuding by broadcasting his alpha pheromones everywhere in a rather crude show of dominance, all but demanding the omega in Will offer the alpha in front of him his neck with their increasing proximity.

Jack’s pheromones smell overly peppery to Will, itching his nose and sticking sour in the back of his throat along with Jack’s _ gall. _ How dare he?

“Therapy doesn’t work on you because _ you _ won’t let it.”

Will keeps his head firmly upright and unbent, grinding his back molars together as something to do that _ isn’t _ hitting the head of the BAU with his workbag, lips peeling back from his teeth in a warning omega _ hiss_. “Because I know all the tricks.”

Jack glowers back at him, righteous in his self-assurance. He means well, or at the very least is trying to assuage his own guilt from sending a teacher into a deadly confrontation with a serial killer, but Will doesn’t appreciate the heavy-handed way he’s showing it. “Well, perhaps you need to _ un_-learn some tricks.”

Alana is gentler as she approaches, instinctively trying to appease the alpha and soothe the omega beside her. “Will, why not have a conversation with Hannibal? He was there; he knows what you went through.”

Because a _ conversation _ with Hannibal Lecter would serve no purpose other than to stroke the beta’s ego that Will has gone to speak to him again. Lecter _ cannot _ do Will’s psych evaluation after fucking him seven ways ‘til Sunday; the ethics board would have a _ fit _if they found out. Will’s job at the Academy - never mind his consulting fieldwork work for the BAU - would be on the line for knowingly withholding information that could affect the validity of the evaluations determining his suitability for work at the FBI, and Lecter could have his licence to practice medicine revoked.

There is still no way Will is going to tell Alana Bloom that he let Lecter fuck him if he can help it though. It might give her the wrong idea.

“Lecter won’t do.”

“Then you want me to do your evaluation?” Alana still looks concerned rather than pleased, but it’s one of the reasons Will would trust her to do something like this for him if he _ must _ get it done. Unlike many others of her profession that Will can name, she’d do it to help him rather than studying him to help herself - though Will would rather Alana see him as her friend and as a potential romantic partner than as a _ patient, _however temporarily. “If that’s what would make you feel most at ease.”

“Those my only two options?” Will asks Jack, turning from Alana for the moment and not bothering to mask any of his bitterness. He can still taste bile.

Jack… Jack had to make the offer in the name of being accommodating, of really caring about the state of Will’s mental and emotional wellbeing, but it’s clear he doesn’t want Will getting his evaluation done by _ Alana Bloom. _ She’s too good a psychiatrist, too good a person, and Will’s friend. She _ might _ clear Will for fieldwork (and she also might _ not_), but she’ll make her worries about doing so quite plain in writing.

Jack prefers to have wiggle room, and so Jack locks his jaw like a boxer about to go back into the ring. “What’s wrong with Dr. Lecter?”

“I told you,” Will begins to explain as patiently as he can, “Lecter’s no good -”

But Jack cuts him short _ again, _ turning accusingly on Alana, whose spine stiffens in surprise. The adults are arguing again: whose fault is it the child on his baby reins won’t be steered the way they want? “_You _recommended him.”

“Because he’s a wonderful psychiatrist!” Alana says sharply, her goodwill finally wearing thin at this backlash against her recommendation and the suggestion of a slight to her friend and mentor. Distantly, Will admires her tenacity, but he’s too hurt, tired and _ annoyed _ right now with the world to want to offer her any assistance. “But it doesn’t matter what _ I _think. It’s important for people to feel comfortable with whoever it is that’s treating them, and if Will isn’t comfortable with Hannibal -”

“Maybe what’s needed here _ is _ something just a little uncomfortable,” says Jack, drawing himself up to full officious pomposity and exerting all the powers of his position, age, experience and dynamic over Will and Alana. Nodding along in perfect agreement with himself to make the world agree with him too, the oppressive peppery _ press _of his presence pushing down on them. “We agreed Dr. Lecter was the less personal choice. You and Will have known each other for some time now, Dr. Bloom; said so yourself. Someone could accuse you of being too close to the situation to read it accurately.”

Alana looks at him in plain frustration. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Will -” She turns her gaze to Will again, searching for his support, but, after today, after _ this, _ Will has had enough.

Does it matter what he has to say? _ Alana, _ Will could make understand if he could just get a word in edgewise, but Jack has already made his mind up about _ exactly _ what Will needs, and saying anything to the contrary will just fall on deaf ears. _ My way or the highway. _

Will had only consulted on the Shrike case as a favour (and because Jack wouldn’t leave him alone). He’s a teacher, and getting shoved around by the head of the BAU isn’t in his job description. _ The highway it is. _

“...Will?” Alana asks, seeing something shift in his expression. It’s enough to get Jack’s attention too.

Will dips his head to her slightly, as courteous an acknowledgement as he can manage at the moment, and then reaches up with his free hand to take off his glasses. Folds them against his chest and tucks them away in his grey blazer pocket. “I quit.”

_ “Will-!” _ The outrage bursts out of Crawford like a greyhound out the gates, but Will has already turned his back on him, walking away, done with the race. He can apologise to Alana later. “Come _ on, _Will!”

This time, Will doesn’t stop.

  


*****

  


October in Wolf Trap is a vast, open world of crispness and colour, the deciduous leaves slowly changing from greens to yellows, oranges and browns. The blue sky seems endless above the fields in the early mornings, and the grass underfoot is always damp with dew and the beginnings of the yearly frost - still too meagre to last long when the sun bursts over the horizon and burns away the last tendrils of the morning mist.

Will’s seven dogs care nothing for the beauty of nature first thing save that they be let out into it _ immediately _to pee on it. They barrel out the front door ahead of Will whilst he’s still yawning in a furry stream of heavy paws and wagging tails, each dog determined to be the first to do their business and then sniff all around the house to see what small furry animals have been by during the night.

They find Alana standing in front of his house well before the sleep-addled Will does - and some _ guard _dogs they are, if they can’t even bark to give him warning -, and Will has a few long, confused minutes wondering why all the dogs have veered left towards his driveway rather than immediately heading towards the tree in front of his house that’s their favourite to piss on.

He gets his answer when a smiling Alana lifts her head from where she’s bent over petting his pack, her blue-and-green tartan coat already picking up fur. The beta is a beautiful - if bewildering - sight standing in the sunlight with fall’s colours blazing behind her, a white card box in her hands and Will’s dogs shoving their seven dopey heads against the bare skin showing on her legs, the greedy, useless things begging for attention and whatever’s in the box.

Will _ tsst_s at them to get them to leave his guest alone and depart in a thump of paws towards their toilet tree - unfortunately focusing all of Alana’s attention on Will at the exact same moment he remembers he’s standing stupidly on his front porch with bed-ruffled hair and sleep still in his eyes, wearing nothing but the thin t-shirt and old underpants he’d gone to bed in along with a pair of battered, well-chewed slippers.

_ Great. _

Alana takes one - _ long, thorough - _look at him from top to toe and back again, and lets her smile turn into the very beginnings of a grin. “Morning.”

Will- Will is still waiting for his brain to properly start, too many contrasting details flying at him at once and tangling together in a snarl. He looks back at Alana and beyond her at his driveway: it’s a long, noisy thing, lots of gravel, and he (and the dogs) usually hear cars coming from half a mile off. “I didn’t hear you drive up.”

“Hybrid,” Alana explains, all rueful smile because she’s been caught being sneaky. Not _ purposefully _sneaky, but she has purpose; there’s something there, conscience-adjacent, that’s a little sheepish for being prodded. Why is she here? “Good car for stalking.”

“Um,” says Will, because a rather crisp breeze takes the opportunity to blow by him just then and remind him that _ yes, you _ are _ standing in front of a beautiful woman wearing nothing but your old underwear_. He turns back towards his house with the hair on his arms and legs standing on end, his nipples - obviously (and embarrassingly so) - stiff under his t-shirt, wishing he had more arms to wrap around himself and sincerely hoping that his boxer shorts don’t have any holes in them near his ass. “I’m compelled to go cover myself.”

He can worry about Alana’s motives _ after _clothing happens.

Will is looking at Alana’s throat rather than her face, but the angle of her chin strongly suggests her gaze has dropped. Her tone, amused, “I have brothers.”

Nice, warm, ass-covering, _ nipple-obscuring, _clothing.

“Think I’ll put a robe on just the same.” Will rubs at one elbow, thumb digging into the thinner flesh on the inside bend where the blood is closest to the surface. “Do you want a cup of coffee? And, more immediately -”

“Why am I here?” Alana asks for him, and Will gives one slight, slow nod of his head. To the best of his knowledge - and despite all his vague and wistful longing -, he doesn’t think Alana has ever been alone in a room with him before. There was always at least one other person with them, if not a crowd. “It occurred to me that I owe you an apology for yesterday.”

“Did it now.”

Alana smiles at him again, a small, hopeful thing, and lifts the box in her hands in offering. “I’ll take that coffee if you’ll take my contrition. I brought muffins.”

A few of the dogs perk up hopefully and amble a little closer to the house again at the sight of an interesting box being raised on high, but promptly amble on off again in a much more woebegotten manner when Will gives them a warning look. “And here I thought bribery was against your good nature. Got any blueberry?”

“Wouldn’t show up here without it,” Alana assures him, so Will holds open his door for Alana to enter before him and points her on through to his kitchen, leaving the dogs outside to wear themselves out romping through the falling leaves.

One benefit to pretty much living out of one room means Will’s clothes are all at close hand. He kicks off his thoroughly dog-chewed slippers to pull on a pair of clean sweatpants and a warm blue sweater he’d only worn for a few hours the night before - before ceding to the inevitable and putting the slippers back on again, if only so he doesn’t have to sit down to put on a pair of socks whilst he has a guest waiting.

Since Alana has already found a seat at his kitchen table, coat hanging comfortably on the back of her chair, Will busies himself immediately with coaxing his ancient coffeemaker to life. He digs out some of his nicer ground coffee to feed the hissing, clicking and spluttering old beast in the hopes it won’t embarrass him too much in front of human company, yielding him caffeine in a timely manner that won’t strip off the inner stomach lining of his guest. (The dogs usually don’t care if Will loses a battle to the coffeemaker, though Ellie, Will’s little curly-haired mutt - that he strongly suspects is the result of the coupling of an ambitious mutt, possibly with some sort of bichon frise ancestry, with somebody’s _ very _expensive, darling toy cavapoo -, barks indignantly three times and then goes and hides under Will’s bed if the coffeemaker gurgle-hisses at her when she’s not expecting it.)

Coffee begins to drip down into the waiting pot so Will shuffles back to Alana, smothering his jaw-cracking yawn with one arm and leaning on the table beside her. She has the grace to look both apologetic and sympathetic; it _ is _pretty early for a house-call.

“Thought I’d best come early before class. I tried calling ahead, but your phone was off.”

Honestly, the phone ringing and shattering the morning quiet probably would have been the more annoying option. But Will had switched his cell off after reaching his house the night before after one irritating call too many disturbing his drive home, and he’s not sure if Alana _ has _his landline number.

“Jack’s been calling since yesterday.”

Alana makes a soft, careful little _ ah _ that is both an acknowledgement of Will’s words and an awkward confession that she doesn’t yet know how to respond to them.

Perhaps a little meanly, Will lets her stew in it, sleepily enjoying the smell of coffee rising ever more strongly in the air, the sounds of his dogs running around gleefully outside and the wind in the branches of the trees on his land. He’d had the usual scant few hours sleep the night before, haunted by visions of ghosts and gore, but this? Now? It feels a little bit like peace.

“We talked over you yesterday,” Alana says at last, twisting her fingers together on the table in front of her but bravely forging on ahead. “I can’t and won’t speak for Jack, but I’m sorry for my part in it. It was unspeakably rude.”

In the kitchen, the coffeemaker lets out a particularly loud and curmudgeonly gurgle: an announcement of its task near-done. Will is glad to take the distraction it offers, heading back into the kitchen to pour them both a mug straight from the pot. “I don’t think we’ve ever been in a room alone together. Have we?”

“I haven’t noticed. Have we?” Alana’s lying, the careful, cheerful nonchalance in her voice spread too thick and uneven even when Will isn’t looking at her directly. Will lets it go, topping up her cup with a generous helping of milk and sugar before taking their drinks back to the table. “Stop trying to change the subject.”

Pots and kettles, unsubtlety used to call out unsubtlety. Alana likes her coffee sweet and creamy, but Will most often takes his strong, bitter and black.

“You were coming from a place of care,” says Will, and takes a seat to push Alana her drink across the tabletop, his own mug hot against his knuckles. With the ghost of a smile, he adds, “I was rude as well.”

Alana very kindly doesn’t point out that _ rude _is Will’s assumed default state of being, though he’s usually nice to her.

It isn’t very hard to be nice to Alana. Most of the time.

Steam rises between them. Through it, Will can still see Alana’s face twisted up in regret - her heart is too good for this. She reaches out with her hand, fingers reaching across the table towards him. “Despite my best efforts, you were ambushed.”

Will forgives her, letting the warmth of her presence thaw his indignation like the sun on the frosty plains outside. There’s still mud left behind, but mud’s not all bad. (Will’s dogs love mud. Unfortunately, only about half of them also love bathtime.) He reaches back, just enough, fingertips grazing against the soft smoothness of the back of Alana’s hand. “Apology accepted.”

Alana smiles again, relief and sincere happiness evident in its curve, and takes her hand back so she can reach for her cardboard box on the table between them, lifting its lid and turning it around to cheerfully present its contents to Will for first dibs. “Then I must pay my dues. Blueberry, cranberry and almond, and peach cobbler: pick your poison.”

The nine muffins in the box - large, beautifully baked things bursting from the confines of their cases and studded with the bright colours of their ingredients - look great and smell delicious, and Will’s stomach rumbles in anticipation at the sight of them. His mind, however, can’t help but forlornly noting that he’d rather throw away all the muffins for the chance of picking the woman presenting them to him instead: for Will, the loveliest poison at the table.

There are words to describe omegas who fall in love with female betas when there’s no alpha in sight to join the both of them, and the nicest ones mean _ delusional. _

In the perfect cookie-cutter world directly out of some obscenely sexist 50s guide for the model house-omega, omegas should end up in one of only two kinds of romantic and sexual relationships. In the first, the omega is the perfect, smiling, doting mate of an alpha. The omega cooks and cleans the home whilst the alpha spends the day at work, and has the dinner on the table for their mate coming in, their clothes off and ass up on the bed the very moment their alpha wants to shove their knot into a warm wet hole. In due course, the omega proudly presents their virile alpha mate with the first of many armfuls of squalling pup, and then proceeds to be the perfect picture of motherhood by keeping the child out of sight and hearing until such a time that the alpha feels it necessary to have a bonding moment with their offspring. Repeat _ ad nauseum. _

The second relationship deemed generally acceptable for an omega is much like the first, except the alpha-omega couple is part of a triad with a - usually female, for breeding reasons - beta. Their pictures in the 50s guide are Americana Holy Family-esque, sparkling white teeth, spotless clothes, and fabulously coiffed hair. In this relationship there are _ two _people to go out and work, and the alpha has two wet holes to choose from at night. Two mothers to rear the children and give them a truly balanced upbringing whilst keeping the house clean, the chores done and the alpha happy.

Alphas, of course, in this stereotypical Stepford world, only mate with an omega, or an omega and a beta.

Betas mate betas, male with female in a pair, or an alpha and an omega in a threesome.

Basely, it comes down to breeding in the end, however theoretical conception might be. Breeding couples and triads, with a bias given for an individual alpha’s preferences. Always. Any other kind of relationship is thought to be _ unbalanced. _

Times have changed of course, and now, any couple can legally mate and marry, but still the alpha-omega and beta-beta relationship ideals are prized to the point where it’s depressing. Presumed as the norm.

Will can never give Alana a child carrying both their genes, nor she him. Not even theoretically, ignoring factors like sperm and egg count and reproductive health. For that, many would consider them an illogical pairing, with attitudes ranging from ambivalence to confusion to outright disgust. Completely ignoring the fact Will and Alana might not _ want _children at all. Completely ignoring all the pleasure and happiness the two of them could give each other.

All the pleasure and happiness Will dreams of giving Alana. There’s a soft secret wish caught behind his eyelashes when he closes them, hazy with longing: sunlight and blue sky, the wind in the trees and the burbling of his stream. Somewhere the dogs are barking playfully and Alana’s laughter comes from Will’s side, his hand in her warm hand and her smooth white neck beneath Will’s mouth, the world smelling of sunshine and water and Alana’s sweet violet flower perfume.

Will’s not asked her opinion about children, but, if Alana wanted them, there are plenty of sperm donors out there, and either of them could carry. Or there’s fostering and adoption. Alana seems to him the sort who’d love to adopt if she had the time and ability, giving love and a home to children who need them. Little hopeful grabbing hands and grubby cheeks to add to the dream, the gleeful shrieks of toddlers being bowled over by wet canine kisses, or the quiet beat of music on a teenager’s phone, showing off the latest track by their favourite artist. It’s a flexible dream, with golden, glowing walls made to gently encompass the hopes of more than Will alone. One day.

Will takes a blueberry muffin.

“About yesterday…” Alana says hesitantly, deliberately waiting until after Will has just taken his first bite. “...Have you thought any more about the psychological evaluation?”

Will hadn’t thought she’d let it go, but he’d been hoping she’d at least wait until _ after _their first cake.

Refusing to rush, Will chews at his normal pace. It’s a decent blueberry muffin, though he’s had better, but wonderful for the fact he neither had to bake nor buy it himself. Swallows. “Wouldn’t’ve thought it needed thinking about further. It’s not required if I’m not working in the field any more.”

“Then you meant it about quitting?”

Yesterday, Will had meant a lot of things. If he still means them all _ today _ is another matter entirely. His… _ gift _makes him inclined to meet kindness with kindness, aggression with aggression, and Jack shoving all his decisions about Will’s wellbeing at Will with such a heavy blast of domineering pheromones had just made Will reflect and respond in kind, digging his heels in and shoving back. In the light of a new day, however, Will just hasn’t decided if he’s still invested in defending that particular trench on the battlefield.

So he deflects. “Nothing to really quit, was there? Jack asked me to consult on a case, and I consulted. Job done.” Another chunk of muffin disappears in one defiant gooey bite.

“You did a lot more than just _ consult, _Will,” Alana says, quiet but firm. Drawing a distinction between Will’s special agent badge and gun, and a consultant’s pass. “You closed the case. And the things you saw -”

“You mean,” Will corrects her, “the things I _ did._”

“Those too,” Alana says, more quietly yet. “They can take a toll on the head and the heart.”

Will looks down at his muffin, and is immediately glad he hadn’t picked out one of the cranberry and almond ones first instead. The blueberries inside, still fresh, have oozed their purple-blue colour out into the cake around them - something alien, bleeding. Thank God, not red. “I think my heart’s used to taking a bit of a beating by now, Dr. Bloom.”

“Doesn’t mean it - and the rest of you - couldn’t do with a bit of a pick-me-up,” says Alana, and finally swivels the muffin-box back around so she can take one. A peach cobbler - the brown sugar dusted across the surface of the muffin glitters hard in the sunlight. “I think you should go talk to Hannibal, Will. Whether you go for a psych eval or not. Hannibal’s good at what he does,” oh, is he _ ever, _ “and I think it’d do _ you _ good to talk about what happened during the case, with someone who went through it with you. Process things _ outside _of your head for a change, so they don’t fester up inside.”

Alana’s really determinedly launching herself into this one, isn’t she? Distantly, Will is touched by her care, even whilst the rest of him feels both hounded and confused by being cared for.

He sips his coffee, stalling. “The talking cure. You know, it only works on the willing.”

“I don’t think you’re entirely _ un_willing. You told Jack you quit, but you didn’t hand in your badge.” Will’s fingers tighten around his cup; he’d hoped to have that remain unnoticed for a little while, giving him time to sift through his thoughts. “You want to help. It’s understandable, Will.”

“You don’t think I should be out in the field.”

“No,” Alana agrees, carefully shredding her muffin into pieces, “but I think if there’s even a small part of you that wants to help people by being out in the field again, now Jack has opened the door for you, you’ll go out there again anyway. And when you do, _ if _ you do, I want it to be on your terms and _ not _because somebody pressured you into doing it. I want you to get the support you need. What Jack needs, I’m not as concerned about.”

Will smiles, his mind offering him a quick flash of thought: Jack’s grim bulldog being held off by Alana’s staunch swan. Two different kinds of strength.

“I don’t want to get in the middle of you and Jack,” Alana says, looking swiftly around the room as though Jack might be listening to their conversation before glancing up at Will with her offer, “but if I can be helpful to you as a buffer…”

Will- Will likes the idea of her offer, likes this way Alana would spend more time in his life. “Ah, I- I like you as a buffer.” Will’s gaze flickers to Alana’s then, for a moment, letting her see the wry crook of his mouth. “I also like the way you rattle Jack. He respects you too much to yell at you, no matter how much he wants to.”

Alana returns his smile. “And I take advantage of that.”

Will tilts his chin, amused - _ you said it, not me _ \- and they share a conspirators’ grin_. _ “_Don’t _let Jack Crawford make you doubt yourself.”

“Likewise. Don’t cut your nose off just to spite your face? It’s a nice nose.”

“Thank you. I take it with me everywhere and yet it rarely receives such compliments.”

Alana laughs at his teasing candour, a quick thrill of warmth making itself at home in Will’s ribcage and settling down to roost. It’s good to have another human voice inside his home, playful words and light feelings soaking into the walls and wooden floors so that the house will still echo with them after Alana has gone.

They finish their individual muffins and coffee, and then Alana pours them another cup as Will divides up kibble and a home-cooked mix in the dogs’ bowls before calling the seven furry idiots back indoors again for their - overdue - breakfast. Hopefully, the longer morning romp outside will have tired them out, encouraging them to nap during the rest of the day whilst Will is out rather than getting up to mischief due to lingering excitement about a new person having come inside the house. Alana’s beta scent isn’t new to them - Will has come home with it carried on his clothes before -, but it’s never been so concentrated for them before.

“You know,” Alana says almost idly, bumping Will’s elbow as the two of them make their way back to the table, the cacophony of seven dogs tucking into their food as though they were fed last week rather than last night in the background, “you smell like your house.”

“I,” says Will. Closes his mouth again as he considers that, and Alana’s small smile. Tries again. “...I genuinely can’t tell if that’s an insult or not. The dogs?”

Alana laughs again, plopping herself back down into her seat from earlier with a familiarity that only improves Will’s good mood. “At last, a secret I can keep from you! And not the dogs. Well - _ yes, _ you sometimes smell of dogs, because you have _ seven dogs, _ but, I mean, your normal scent. Before you put on your aftershave. You smell like _ this._” She gestures expansively at the sun-soaked table Will is once more leaning on beside her: their mugs of her coffee, and the box of muffins.

“...Muffins?” Will asks, unsure what his face is doing at that description. He’s heard stranger and _ worse _comparisons, but usually not from people he’s so heavily attracted to. “I suppose that beats the cracker joke.”

Alana mimes swatting at him in reproach, although she’s distracted before making any contact by Max trotting through from the kitchen and laying his head adoringly in her lap. He does it to all the women he meets; he’s a big hit at the vet’s because of it, and usually scores an extra treat for all his utter shamelessness.

Alana caves as well, rubbing Max’s soft floppy ears and telling him what a lovely boy he is.

Will knows when he’s been beaten, and there’s no way he’s going to be receiving any petting when his competition has big soft border collie eyes. Dogs make _ terrible _wingmen.

At least Alana hasn’t _ entirely _ forgotten Will; she looks up at him, smiling, with her hands still buried in Max’s fur. “You smell like fresh, clean air, Will, and lots of it. The trees in the woods around here, that you can smell on the breeze. And something like- like…” She grasps for words to describe the thought clearly hanging in her mind - but loses them all completely when Jack-the-dog (a title that became necessary after Will deepened his acquaintanceship with Jack-the-human Crawford) and Harley come racing out of the kitchen after their missing brother, spot all the love and attention being heaped upon Max, and immediately decide they want some of that as well. Alana gives up spectacularly as she reaches out to pet them too, laughing, “Okay, _ yes! _ Like coffee and muffins. Warm.”

Good things. Alana associates Will’s scent with good things, warm things - a compliment to anyone, but being told someone likes their scent tends to give omegas an extra swoop of pleased delight.

Will is not immune. He grins at Alana’s woes trying to pet three dogs at once, reaching back behind him blindly for the box of muffins and grabbing another one for himself. It’s another peach cobbler by the summer-sweet smell of it, the crunch of the sugar on the crust and juicy chunks of orange-yellow fruit inside unmistakable against Will’s teeth and tongue.

“Good?” Alana asks, pleased at Will’s obvious pleasure.

“Good,” Will agrees, after swallowing his mouthful. Turning the muffin in his hands to investigate its insides, watching the sugar on it sparkle, before huffing out a brief laugh. There are much worse things to remind people of. “...I suppose this counts as cannibalism?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life sucks when all you want is the pretty lady to ask you out, and instead you get to put up with your overbearing boss trying to send you for a psychiatric evaluation like it’s the naughty chair. Muffins don’t make everything better or heal your heartache, but I’d rather be in a shit situation with a delicious muffin than be in the same situation without one.
> 
> _Bouchée:_ (mouthful) A small puff pastry case with a savoury filling, often creamed, usually served as an hors d'oeuvre.
> 
> Large chunks of dialogue were taken or adapted from _Amuse-Bouche_ and _Potage_ (and their scripts) this chapter. I’m trying not to have so much straight from the show all at once, but some repetition’s important for clarifying what’s happening differently here. There’s much less of it as we further diverge and head for panicking pregnancy land.
> 
> I’m gonna be frank with you: there are no recipes for the muffins because I just googled ‘good places to get muffins in Baltimore’ and used the (sweet) muffins people recommended in their reviews. And I absolutely refuse to look up recipes, because the recs made me hungry enough. _Peach cobbler muffins_. I’m jealous. And hungry. ;w;


	3. canard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal encourages complicity, Beverly offers bribery, and Will tries remote consultancy.

Many omegas, when feeling threatened or unsure in a new environment, will instinctively find and place themselves in an area reminiscent of their nest: dim, covered, and surrounded by soft things. Their backs go to the wall so that they can see everything approaching them and nothing can sneak up behind them - though such actions leave them no escape should their defences be breached, and frequently with nothing to defend themselves save the wits they had just immediately thrown over for instinct.

Unlike many of Hannibal’s omega patients who tend to duck their heads and disappear in the shadow under the mezzanine when they enter his vast office for the first time, Will’s instincts take him to the heights. Though he had hardly hurried there, Will had left his bag and already been at the foot of the wooden ladder by the time Hannibal had finished shutting the door, halfway up it before Hannibal had turned around again and taken two steps back into the room.

Up on the mezzanine, Will has the higher ground in the office and the tactical advantage with it, a far superior position than many of his dynamic would unthinkingly choose. The only access to the mezzanine is by the ladder in the office or by the second-floor door on the opposite wall - which Hannibal cannot get to from the other side without leaving the room and letting Will out of his sight, giving Will plenty of time to evade him using another route. Will still has his back to the wall like his more stereotypical omega kin, yes, but on the mezzanine he also has two different means of escape at his disposal (provided Will does not count leaping over the balcony’s balustrade a viable option as well) and three walls’ worth of heavy book-and-curio-shaped projectiles to use in case of attack.

Rather taken with Will’s show of fierce, instinctive intelligence - despite how it now aims to give him a crick in the neck -, Hannibal has no plans of inducing Will to attack him at this point in time. The mezzanine is exposed enough that Hannibal can easily keep track of Will’s position by scent and sight, though the details of his expression are lamentably lost to the distance between them.

It is a loss significant enough that Hannibal wishes Will would come down the ladder again, closer to him, but not so much that Hannibal desires to force Will’s hand by following him up to the mezzanine. Or asking Will to come and join him down on the office floor. Brute force often damages or destroys that which it captures; sweeter is the prize that has been coaxed into pliancy and walks into the cage of its own accord. Hannibal has had a taste of his quarry already and is more than willing to put in the effort for a prize as fascinating as Will Graham: a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, as the saying goes, but what dull creature would keep a flock of tame pigeons when the opportunity is extended to catch the wild firebird? Even if all that is obtained from the attempt is but a single feather - how _ brilliant _that feather!

Will makes a fine firebird to entice. He is a creature both beautiful and dangerous with a prophet’s tongue, offering blessings to law enforcement with his insight even whilst, at the same time, pointing the way to a criminal’s doom.

Will has the infamously unfriendly nature of the firebird too; he seems quite determined to ignore Hannibal below him on the office floor, drifting along the lines of Hannibal’s bookshelves with a nonchalantly detached air.

So Hannibal, busying his hands with tidying up his desk, decides to throw him the lure of a golden apple in the hopes his firebird will sing.

“Jack Crawford asked me to perform your psych eval. You didn’t tell him about us.”

Will bites, turning from the shelves to pour down scornful wrath. “Obviously, _ you _didn’t tell him either.”

“No,” Hannibal agrees placidly, and looks up at him, this wild thing, perched deliberately just out of reach. “I am not one to - how is it they put it? - kiss and tell.”

Will twitches beautifully. Hannibal cannot see the set of his jaw from the floor, but the stress of it tightens the line of Will’s shoulders, spreads stiffness down his neck and back. It had been a delight to relieve him of that tension, unspooling Will to something languorous in bed.

“We never clarified what our response should be for this kind of situation, and it seemed rude for me to divulge the details of our private affairs with others before discussing it with you first.”

Hannibal hadn’t had any plans to tell Jack Crawford anything of his interactions with Will _ regardless _ of politeness. He had been far too curious to hear how _ Will _might describe them to his superior, especially when Will had made it so plainly clear he’d machinated as much as Hannibal had to get them both into bed. The subsequent phonecalls from both Alana Bloom and Crawford, stating that the eval would be dependent upon Will getting in touch and confirming an appointment, and Will calling a few days later to arrange this evening’s appointment, had only piqued Hannibal’s curiosity further.

Will’s response is clipped. “There was no prior need for clarification because I never expected a situation to arise where we’d need to explicitly divulge _ anything._”

“Alas,” Hannibal says mildly.

“_Alas,_” Will says much more bitterly and turns back to the books with dismissive swiftness, running his hand lightly along their spines.

Hannibal isn’t certain if Will has noticed that he’s scent-marking as he goes, the trace oils at his wrist and fingertips leaving his scent on everything they brush against, claiming unconscious ownership of the space around him. _ Hannibal’s _space.

Hannibal can smell him from the floor. The truly _ awful _cologne Will must douse himself with every morning has almost faded away by this point in the evening, letting Will’s natural scent gradually emerge and fill the air around him: fresh ozone, sweet-spicy cardamom, and smoky pine.

It’s the same mouth-watering scent that still lingers, ghost-like, in Hannibal’s bed. It’s been almost a week and a half; Hannibal should - and would, usually - have changed his bed-linen by now, especially after mounting an omega there so thoroughly, but he finds himself enjoying the smell of Will that still barely clings to his sheets, cotton rubbing the leftover scent of the omega’s pheromones and slick onto his skin when Hannibal sleeps in his bed at night.

When Hannibal closes his eyes, he can clearly see the omega behind the lids, Will already amongst the most vivid of those things whose details Hannibal has captured to place within the vaulted walls of his Mind Palace. Hannibal had recorded something there of Will already before mounting him, building an airy marble room for the omega sun-drenched in the light of fall. Within it lies the memory of a blood-spattered face and trembling, blood-smeared hands, art in motion. The scents of fear, panic, iron and cordite mingled in the air. A shabby motel breakfast table, a thermos of coffee still steaming, plates and bowls laden with protein scramble made with eggs and handmade sausages. The biting echo of Will's voice, sharp truths dropped like diamonds from an arcuate mouth.

But now… now, Hannibal has added to the room the stormy, ever-changing grey-blue of Will Graham’s eyes and their guarded expression, the bleed-out of gold in the iris responding to chemical changes within Will’s body, signalling Will's state of heightened emotion: fear, anger, _ lust_. The surprisingly soft curls of Will's hair, darkened to near black at the roots with sweat, spread out in a messy halo on the pillows of Hannibal’s bed. The imprint of the rougher skin of Will’s hands, the rust of Hannibal’s blood under Will’s nails and the flavour of it in his mouth, how Will’s arousal tastes like cardamom and brown sugar and smoke, potently sweet at the scent glands of his wrists and throat, at the hot throb of Will’s pulse. Something intoxicating. Dangerous. Vital. Mixed with lavender and amber and spice, Hannibal’s body-wash and colognes.

In a gallery of statues, Hannibal memorialises how Will’s blush spreads like the slow drip of blood into a pool of milk. How Will’s drowsy mouth is the same petal-pink as his nipples and dripping cock, as the pretty hole that had parted for Hannibal’s fingers and seeped slippery shining slick over the soft curves of Will’s ass, between strong thighs that had gripped Hannibal’s hips like a vice then trembled finely in post-coital bliss. The way Will’s gaze had so stubbornly, determinedly slid away from Hannibal’s even when Hannibal had bent over him to enclose it, and how Will had been demanding of his own pleasure all the same. The heat and exquisite tightness of his muscles around Hannibal’s cock, and the shudder of his orgasm. Orgasms. Each tempting bump of Will’s spine, another hill for Hannibal to smooth his hand across, sheets twisted around their legs. 

When the wind blows gently, the room sounds with conversation: Will’s thoughts, Will’s words, Will’s being, a different moment to step to every time as Hannibal moves from breeze to breeze in this Room of Will at his leisure. The roughness of Will’s laughter, startled out of the long pale line of his throat like wild geese in winter spooked by the crack of a hunter’s gun, and the low visceral purr of his pleasure, meat Hannibal had cooked and provided for him fresh on his tongue. The rhythm of his heartbeat when excited and at rest. The petulant _ slam _ of a Quantico office door.

The collection Hannibal has already gathered is staggering, dizzying in its breadth and depth and sensory wonder, but both architecture and furnishings feel, to him, like a work in progress, barely capturing even a drop of Will Graham’s true essence. Hannibal wants to see it all again, and verify its truth. Note its differences. Hannibal wants to hear, see, smell, taste, touch and _ experience _ Will Graham in all the different, changing times and lights: lit by only the moon’s silver, in the paler glow of morning, in the _ effets de soir. _ Their first meetings have merely been the _ imprimatura _upon which Hannibal may now paint successive layers, the raw colour of their base made of earthiness, hunger and blood. It will show, even in the - one day - finished piece.

There is no action in this world at this moment that Hannibal does not wish to do to and/or with Will Graham, and the sheer _ potential _of it all is like a flood after a decade’s long drought. Hannibal must tread carefully through the waters lest he lose his footing and the rush sweeps him away.

“Have you spoken to Alana recently?” Will inquires, pausing in his drifting to look back over his shoulder at Hannibal.

“Not for a few days, no.” Hannibal’s evenings have been too busy lately to have Alana over for dinner, his time caught up with new art exhibitions, two concerts, and his own artistic endeavours. “Is there something you’d hoped she might have told me?”

Will’s expression flickers into something almost defiant, like a little boy defending a decision he doesn’t expect approval for but wants all the same. “I told Jack that I didn’t need a psych eval because I quit.”

If Jack Crawford has allowed Will Graham’s keenly insightful mind to escape his service, he’s a greater and blinder fool than Hannibal had originally given him credit for.

Hannibal approves of Will’s defiance in the face of Jack’s no doubt blatant manoeuvrings, but Will’s decision dismays him. Hannibal’s direct access to information about the FBI’s investigations currently comes through Will, and the loss of such useful information straight from the horse’s mouth, barely a few scant weeks after Hannibal had first begun to receive it, would be something of a blow. Adding insult to injury, Will’s true potential is _ wasted _ when used only in a lecture hall, his clever mind handed only a toddler’s nine-piece jigsaw to assemble rather than crime scene masterpieces of a thousand moving parts and more.

Worse _yet,_ removing Will from the stress of active fieldwork would cool the heat from the forge testing and reforming Will’s metal. The blade of Will’s person is dazzlingly unique but still much duller than Hannibal suspects it could be: a master’s touch is required to refold the pure dark steel at Will’s core, stripping out the impurities of society’s banal limitations and polishing Will’s edge to smith a weapon suitable for legends.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’?” Hannibal asks, seeing the hesitance in Will’s hand still hovering over his bookshelves.

The quandary: to lean against the wood for support, or turn around to place his weight on the mezzanine railing?

“...But I haven’t handed in my gun or badge yet,” Will yields in confession, and turns. Choosing to continue his unconscious search for guidance, for validation.

“I see.”

“Alana thinks it’s because I still want to be out in the field,” Will continues, still pushing for Hannibal’s opinion.

Hannibal tilts his head, curious now. “Do you?”

“Once, being a field agent was _ all _I wanted. But I failed screening.” Too moral - or his raw talent too unhoned - to fake it. Emotionally honest: Hannibal can track the feelings flying across Will’s features as easily as a hawk that’s spotted an unsuspecting vole.

“And yet they clearly realised you were too valuable to let go entirely,” Hannibal says, and wishes, for a brief moment, that he’d been a fly on the wall for the discussion around _that_ particular hiring decision.

Will being too unstable to be an agent had surely worked against him in gaining his position at the FBI Academy, but balancing that out had been a mind of some renown: not just Will’s sky-high record of closing cases previously thought impossible in the NOPD, but his work in academia as well. Will has more than a few published papers under his belt, all of them more than worth the time Hannibal had spent reading them (a comment he wishes he could make with more regularity when doomed with only the fatuous dross regularly deposited into the world by the digestive systems of some of his _ esteemed _ colleagues to read, excrement proudly presented in the guise of contributions to academic thought), and Will’s monologue, _ On Determining Time of Death by Insect Activity, _ is considered the standard in the field. Despite Mant and Nuorteva in the many volumes of Tedechi’s _ Forensic Science _ including more images and a table for invasion waves in their take on forensic entomology, Hannibal had truly found Will’s monologue on the subject an illuminating - and helpfully instructive - read.

Will’s face twists in a grimace, self-deprecation at its core. “Too crazy to be an agent, but hey, why don’t you come work at the Academy and teach the nice sane people what _ not _to do?”

“You were sane enough to catch the Shrike.”

“Do you _ need _to be sane to do something like that?” Will asks somewhat wryly. “I wasn’t told that was a requirement.”

No, Jack Crawford probably kept the list of requirements for retaining Will’s services rather low.

“I am sure you’ve heard the phrase: ‘the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing’?” Hannibal takes a careful seat on the corner of his desk with legs partly spread, deliberately crafting a more casual atmosphere to encourage an open airing of thoughts and grievances. For someone who sees so much, Will can be quite reserved with his speech at times. Too used to having it ridiculed, despised or ignored, most likely. “Organisations as large as the FBI often have so many hands up and down the chain of command that no-one can keep track of them all, and eventually, hypocrisy finds the gaping maw being hidden by slack fingers and slides down the throat into the belly of the beast.”

Will responds beautifully to subtle suggestion, whistling and leaning more of his weight on the mezzanine railing, apparently impressed at Hannibal’s rather withering description. “Oh, Dr. Lecter, _ ouch. _ If I were a real agent, I could be quite hurt on the bureau’s behalf there.”

“A special agent _ is _a real agent, Will,” Hannibal replies, as insincerely earnest as he can be just to provoke the flash of his guest’s rare grin. More thoughtfully, to coax Will into giving it some thought, “Or so I have been informed.”

Will’s grin lives a brief life, the longest part of its existence spent in its fading away. “...I don’t know if I want to continue being a special agent. I mean, I _ do; _ there’ll always be some part of me that wants to be a field agent, because I could do so much good and I _ know _ I’m good at what I do, but. This work will use me up, and people like Jack will _ help _it use me up to get the results they need. And then they’ll scrape up and send whatever’s left of me at the end for another psych eval.”

It doesn’t have to be that way, of course. There is more than enough room that a home could be made in the middle ground, where Jack’s desires, Alana’s worries, and Will’s own dreams could meet harmoniously. Where Will could be supported by his employer, colleagues, friends, psychiatrist and, perhaps, lover, to do the work that his soul has been educated by society to believe is just, moral and right. Solve cases. Catch bad guys.

Live the insultingly bland existence of a master professional’s tool in the grasp of an incompetent, that _ beautiful _mind of his dulled by by improper handling.

“Then,” Hannibal gently inquires, “the question here must become: do you knowingly consent to being so flagrantly used?”

Will doesn’t reply, considering some mixture of the question and Hannibal keenly, sensing something of the depths lurking below the words floating atop a deep dark pool. He’s quick - a fact Hannibal finds both dangerous and delightful -, and so blatant manipulation only irritates him. Their time in bed together had only strained at those moments when Will had gotten weary of Hannibal too obviously testing him, though Will’s patience probably _ had _ been extended by the post-climatic gifts of _ la petite mort. _

It matters little. Whether Will reads the true intent behind Hannibal’s query or not, the question and its implications will still sink into that puzzle of his mind regardless, a droplet spreading endless ripples in a wind-stirred lake. _ The FBI is ill-using you. Jack Crawford and his ilk will use you up and wear you out. _

Will pushes off the railing and starts walking again, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Regardless, Jack thinks I need therapy. Alana didn’t say it in as many words, but she really wanted me to talk to you as well.”

“Undoubtedly,” Hannibal agrees, “she has your best interests at heart. But I would say what you need is a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there.”

“Last time he sent me into a dark place I brought something back.”

“A surrogate daughter?” Hannibal’s gaze is lowered for a moment as he stands once more, but he hears the moment when Will, struck, pauses half a beat in his steps before resuming his regular pace. “You saved Abigail Hobbs’ life. You also orphaned her. It comes with certain emotional obligations, regardless of empathy disorders.”

Will’s voice sharpens. “You were there. You saved her life too. Do_ you _ feel obligated?”

“Yes,” Hannibal admits plainly, watching the force of his confession as it strips all the edges off Will’s defences. Will had been expecting a denial or a deflection, and receiving honesty instead rattles him. “I feel a staggering amount of obligation. I feel responsibility. I’ve fantasised about scenarios where my actions may have allowed a different fate for Abigail Hobbs.”

Will looks at him for a beat longer, then nods rather jerkily and looks away. “Jack thinks Abigail Hobbs helped her dad kill those girls.”

_ Ah. _ For all he can be laughably blind at times, Jack Crawford had not gained his seat at the helm of the BAU without staunch intelligence and a good nose for the truth.

Hannibal lets the silence settle for a long moment. Then, “How does that make you feel?”

“How does it make _ you _feel?” Will snaps straight back at him, pettish, rounding a corner on the mezzanine and coming to an angry stop.

“I find it vulgar.”

“Me too.”

“And entirely possible.”

Will wrenches into movement again, one hand flying out in dismissive disgust. “It’s not what happened.” His anger alters his scent, favouring the ozone: a storm in a teacup.

“Jack will ask her when she wakes up,” Hannibal cautions him, fascinated by this defensive flare of Will’s fiery heart in protection of those he perceives innocent, “or he’ll have one of us ask her.”

“Is this therapy or a support group?”

_ Clever boy. _Hannibal lets a thread of laughter colour his reply, utterly sincere as he lifts his face to Will on high. “It’s whatever you need it to be.”

Will stops walking again, his curiosity snared. Comes over to lean on the railing again, all to see if Hannibal is serious.

Hannibal is quite serious. “Speaking of…” He turns back to his desk, shifting a few of his folders until he can withdraw the paper he had prepared and set aside there earlier, lifting it aloft to catch Will’s eye.

Will looks down at him more than a little suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“Your psychological evaluation, should you decide to go back out into the field and require it.” Hannibal walks closer to the wall where Will is, pleased to note Will, furrowed brow and all, sidles along the mezzanine railing to meet him halfway. Height between the floor and mezzanine level notwithstanding. “You’re totally functional and more or less sane. Well done.”

“...You just rubber-stamped me?”

“Yes. Jack Crawford may lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn’t break you, and your future decisions can be made without the obstruction of any paperwork.”

The furrowed brow turns into a frown. “You can’t do that. And I can’t accept that.”

Hannibal had been expecting the backlash. There is almost always some sort of it when Hannibal extends an offer to those he favours that they don’t really want to refuse, pesky fears and morals waging war with their own desires and the temptingly easier path Hannibal is willing to guide them on.

Watching the struggle is half the reason Hannibal even offers this kind of assistance in the first place. The rest is simple curiosity about the outcome.

Though it _ also _never hurts to bind a useful tool to one in complicity.

“As you wish.”

Will seems further annoyed by Hannibal’s placid acceptance of his refusal, bursting out with a frustrated, “Why would you even _ offer _ me that? That kind of breach in ethics could jeopardise _ both _our jobs.”

Hannibal lowers his hand, evaluation with it. “Tell me, Will, have you spoken to anyone at all about our little _ tête-à-tête_?”

Still rather disapproving, Will shakes his head. Hannibal didn’t think he would have; Will had escaped Hannibal’s house with the air of one flustered but satisfied, though not terribly proud of himself.

“Neither have I. If that were to continue, who is, then, to say that it didn’t happen _ after _I did this evaluation for the bureau? Or at all?”

“Why would you take that risk?”

“Because I believe, at least in some small, strange and immeasurable way, we have an understanding of each other. In a world where it is very uncommon for those like us to find understanding.” Will looks somewhat startled at the firmness of Hannibal’s reply - is it so unusual for another to be so sure of him? “And I believe it would be a tragedy for you to be stifled in your endeavours because of a little red tape, your talents wasted.”

“You could give me a referral,” Will argues. Half-heartedly.

“I could,” Hannibal agrees, though he is entirely unwilling to allow another inferior psychiatrist the opportunity to take a peek into the mind of Will Graham - if they are even intelligent enough to get that far - if he can help it. “And you would have to suffer another stranger attempting to pry their way into the workings of your mind again, all for the possibility they could deem you too unstable for fieldwork at the end of it.”

_ Much like the story of your life so far, Will._

Hannibal waits a moment, to let that sink in. “I can help you, Will. If you ask me to.”

Will struggles. Hannibal can see him struggle, his desire for a simple, non-intrusive solution to his woes grappling with his morals like Herakles against the Nemean lion. Like the demigod, Will too will one day triumph over his lion and wear its pelt to warm him - or reveal himself to be nothing but another disappointing imposter, and perish by its claws.

Will shakes his head, though he is clearly still torn. “No. Not- not never, not yet, but not that way for now. Until I’ve decided if I even want to be back out in the field.”

Not yet is always better than not ever, and so Hannibal concedes with a gracious dip of his head that the day must be a leonine victory, though his Herakles is still alive to retreat and listen to advice from the heavens.

“Then I must wish you the best of luck with your decision. And Will,” Hannibal carefully files the psychological evaluation away again to keep the paper smooth and uncrumpled, “I do hope you know that the mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself and not the worst of someone else.”

There’s another long pause, and then Will, sounding truly confused, “If I really quit we might never talk again, and _ that’s _what you want to end with?”

Looking up from his desk again, Hannibal offers him only an affable smile to read in response, an easy shrug. “We might never talk again, true. Or perhaps we might end up talking every day after this one.” Hannibal is strongly leaning towards the latter situation, and will influence events as best he can to achieve something like that outcome - though nothing is certain. Will, confusion and all, makes life so wonderfully, novelly, unpredictable. “_Do _you want to talk, Will?”

  


*****

  


After their heated discussion in his lecture hall, Jack keeps out of Will’s way. Will appreciates the reprieve, though he suspects the move may be made less out of consideration and more out of the implicit understanding that if Will _ really _ wants to quit helping the BAU, _ Will _is going to have to be the one who tracks Jack down and formally hands in his badge. It relies on a great deal of self-interest from both parties and a mutual unspoken agreement that neither side will go over the other party’s head to superiors, but the end result is a rather childish game of hide-and-seek: if Will can’t find Jack, Will can’t quit, and, in the meantime, Will might change his mind about quitting in the first place.

Beverly Katz, fibre analyst to the BAU and hide-and-seek onlooker extraordinaire, has no problems tactfully accepting the implicit whilst explicitly getting the results she wants, parking herself against the wall right outside Will’s classroom where Will can’t miss her when he walks out after his last morning lecture has finished.

“They must use up half the Academy budget in scent deadening spray for your classroom, Graham,” Beverly says rather cheerfully in lieu of _ hello, _ Will coming to a stop just in front of her. Much like a burst pipe, there's no use in trying to ignore Beverly Katz. Whilst you pretend the leak isn't there, the flooding just gets worse. “You can smell the stifled longing from three corridors away.”

She’s not the first person to have made that comment or something like it, though overexposure to the scent means Will mostly filters it out these days. _ Eau de Hot For Teacher, _ as one guest lecturer had once wearily put it, another comparatively young omega man who had said the smell haunted his university lecture halls as well.

Will would prefer not to think about it. If he thinks about it, he may start _ smelling _ it again, and the scent _ en masse _is about as attractive as a bag of old sweaty gym clothes that a frightened dog has peed on. “Beverly Katz. You’re a long way from home.”

Beverly just grins at him, pushing off the wall with her shoulders so she can stand upright again. “Occasionally I like to remind myself a world exists outside of the labs. Coincidentally, such reminders often overlap with the lunch run.” She waves the brown paper bag she had been dangling laconically from two fingers at him, letting it swing back and forth. “Also I came to bribe you into service. Bean-and-cheese burritos. Want one?”

Will has another class in the afternoon, and had just planned to do what he always does on those days when the paperwork isn’t swamping him: head over to the Academy cafeteria to find the least unappetising thing there for lunch. Beverly’s offer would save him a walk there, but - “Maybe I should ask you what you want from me before I sign away my soul.”

“Can’t begrudge a man wanting to read the fine print.” Beverly shrugs, a quick rolling rise-fall of her shoulders that sends a waft of her relaxed alpha scent out into the air around her. Amber and smoky vanilla, with a sweet bright burst of rosy pink pepper: Beverly makes people feel instinctively at home, even tinged with the scent of the chemicals used in the lab she works in most of the time. “We’ve got a case downstairs going nowhere, and I figured it might help if you take a look. Mushrooms.”

“You know, I told Jack I quit,” says Will, adjusting the lay of the bag-strap on his shoulder and wondering just what sort of macabre nightmares his mind will conjure up for him that night if he chooses to oblige Beverly’s request. He has an inkling; there have been whispers and horror stories floating about the Academy about the latest crime scene involving the BAU for a few days now, a row of corpses found in the woods, left as food for fungi and moulds_._

“I _ heard _ that,” Beverly says cajolingly, “but I _ also _ heard you’ve still got your badge. And Jack’s deliberately not asking you for it.”

It’s amazing how well the FBI keeps a secret. _ Amazing._

Not.

“Is my desk bugged?” Will asks, only partially joking.

“The walls have ears,” Beverly informs him in a solemn hush, before her usual grin peeks through. “And the floors, ceilings, and furniture like gossip.”

That doesn’t rule out the possibility that Will’s desk is bugged. Bless the FBI, where paranoia comes free as a perk of employment. “Well I hope the furniture informed you that even if I _ haven’t _handed in my badge yet, Jack’s decreed that I need a psych eval before I can go back out in the field again.”

“Not asking you to go out in the field, am I? The morgue’s in the basement.” Beverly waggles her eyebrows dramatically, sure in her winning argument, and swaps the paper bag to her left hand so she can offer Will her right arm. “Come, Mr. Graham, let me spirit you away into my lair of fluorescent lighting and formaldehyde. You get fed; no-one’ll tell Jack, and we can pretend you were never there.”

Will doesn’t take her arm. But when Beverly _ tsk_s at him and dips her hand inside her bag to offer him a foil-wrapped burrito instead, Will caves and accepts the food with a wry smile.

It can be troublesome, as an omega, taking something directly offered by an alpha. Especially when it’s something fundamental like food or protection. It gives alphas an endorphin rush to _ provide _ for those in their care - and alphas, at least subconsciously, tend to categorise every omega as close as or closer to them than a friendly acquaintance as _ in their care._

Or, depending on the alpha’s good nature, idealism, and general temperament, _ especially _when the alpha in question is angling for a date, every identifiable omega in the nearby environment. An alpha is still considered a piss-poor alpha if they stand back and allow an omega to suffer in their presence, knowingly or otherwise.

Honestly, it’s basic human decency to not let _ anyone _suffer needlessly, but gender and dynamics have always been dragged into things since the year dot.

“And not a chaperone in sight. Ms. Katz, how scandalous.” Beverly, Will is pretty sure, isn’t hitting on him, or even trying to stereotypically _ provide _for him as an omega. But that doesn’t stop her getting the ego-boost from Will accepting lunch direct from her hands, a quick flicker of pleased red decorating the rim of her iris.

“That’s ‘cause _ you’re _ the chaperone. My esteemed colleagues are doing their Dumb and Dumber routine, and I need an alibi in case I feel the urge to throttle them.”

It’s good that Beverly’s not asking for Will to stop her committing homicide, because Will’s not sure if he even _ could _ best Beverly Katz in a close physical encounter. At least not without the element of surprise on his side, which would probably require the death of at least one of her labmates as a distraction. Beverly is in great shape, has seen a _ lot _more time in the field recently than Will, and is known for being both a quick draw with her gun as well as an accurate shot.

Will waves his burrito. “What’s to stop me just running away with this to my office to eat in peace? My door locks.”

“I can and _ will _tackle your pretty, faithless twink ass before you make it five yards,” Beverly tells him cheerfully, which somehow makes the threat all the more believable.

“‘Twink’?”

“Feel it. In your _ heart._” Will gives her an unimpressed look. Beverly is unperturbed, alpha confidence unflappable. “We have coffee.”

_ “Terrible _coffee.”

“Terrible coffee, but it’s _ free. _I’ll even fetch it for you.”

Lunch in hand and the promise of free (terrible) coffee being brought to him are, combined, a lure too great to resist, much as Will begrudges admitting it. Teaching at the FBI Academy is lowering his standards dramatically. Next, he’ll be putting out for peanuts.

He starts walking in the direction of the BAU labs, and unwraps his burrito to grumble around a mouthful. “At least _ this _is edible.”

Beverly falls in step with him, leaving the rest of the food in her bag. “I know, right? Good thing too - the morgue’s all corpses and fungi at the moment, which has pretty much put us all off everything Italian until at least next week, so we’re all temporarily embracing anti-mushroom pescetarianism.”

Swallowing, Will squints at his burrito. Black beans. Seasoned rice. Cheese. Onions. Shredded lettuce. Sauce. “This doesn’t contain any fish though?”

“Yeah, Jimmy’s been squeamish about the cafeteria seafood ever since a tuna sandwich from there gave him the runs.”

Fair enough: Will usually doesn’t touch the fish options in the cafeteria either, although his avoidance is based on the fact he has plenty of - fresher - fish at home that he had caught himself. But if the cafeteria food made Jimmy ill…

“You’re really not convincing me I shouldn’t’ve bought my own lunch.”

“Too late, you started eating the bribe,” Beverly says ruthlessly, and snorts when Will only _ sighs _ pointedly down at his burrito. It’s ruined now. Sort of. Food is food, but now it’s food associated with Jimmy Price’s diarrhoea. “Oh, shut up and eat your fibre.”

Will makes a rude noise at her from the back of his throat, but otherwise shuts up and eats his fibre. He’s finished before they hit the elevators, balling up the foil wrap and tossing it in a nearby bin before the doors open to take them both down to the labs.

They end up in the break room - mostly because it’s currently empty and so there’s no-one to protest Will taking up a table by spreading the graphic contents of a case file across it, but also because it’s right beside the coffee machine. And Jack usually doesn’t stick his head in the break room unless everyone is pulling an all-nighter.

God, _ Jack. _ Will still doesn’t know what he wants to do about working for Jack and the BAU, his thoughts spinning around and around like a macabre merry-go-round. He can’t deny Jack has a point - Will is _ good _ at the work, and Will feels good saving lives, helping people, and bringing killers to justice. But the work… the work isn’t good for _ Will. _ Not the impressions it leaves on his mind, and not the constant chip-chip-chipping away at his self-esteem when people look at him with doubt in their eyes, wondering if he’s some kind of con artist making things up, wondering if he’s stable enough to do the job, wondering if the next case he looks at will be the thing that drives him insane.

In fact, the only person who has never looked at Will with some kind of fear or doubt in their eyes in the past month is _ Dr. Lecter, _ which _ has _ to be some kind of awful cosmic joke at Will’s expense. Will had looked the beta - approximately - in the eye after they’d slept together and told Lecter that he’d basically used Lecter against himself, and Lecter had _ still _ invited Will to stay for dinner before pulling him back down into the bed-sheets for another round of thorough fucking. Given Will leftovers to take home with him, and has now offered to put his neck on the line for Will, _ with _Will, to give Will a psych eval, freeing Will to go back out into the field unfettered.

Because they have an understanding of each other, apparently.

According to Lecter.

Will _ understands _ that taking the psych eval from Lecter - and, subsequently, mutually agreeing to pretend the two of them had never fucked - would remove all of Will’s leverage over the other man. Whilst frustrating (going to bed with Lecter was supposed to get _ rid _of the beta), the realisation makes it a great deal easier for Will to trust Lecter’s intentions with regards to his offer of assistance. Lecter gives the impression that he doesn’t like having either his actions constrained by another party or leverage held over him by anyone, and so it’s in his best interests as much as Will’s that any bargain they strike between the two of them goes well.

Morally - and according to the terms of his employment -, Will should get a referral. But the psychiatrist Will would be referred to might not clear him for fieldwork. Because fieldwork will only make Will’s nightmares worse -

_ “Will,” _ Dr. Lecter’s voice whispers across Will’s thoughts, soft and relentless as the dappled sunshine in the photographs before him, light spread over fungus-ravaged corpses in their forest graves, _ “I do hope you know that the mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself and not the worst of someone else.” _

Fuck, Will’s head hurts.

Beverly, having already hollered the arrival of lunch at the figures of Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller (and many, many slabs of corpses) as she passed the main lab she shares with the two men, goes about fulfilling her promise of coffee. Distracted by the images in front of him, the first Will really knows of it is when Beverly pushes a hot cup into his hand, the heat and weight startling him out of his wandering thoughts.

“Try not to let it poison you,” Beverly advises him archly - whilst holding her own cup of the same brew -, only to gape when Will lifts the hot coffee straight to his mouth to take a large swallow. _ “Fuck, _ Graham - do you have an asbestos _ tongue?_”

Will shrugs at her, enjoying the radiant heat as it slips down his throat. “Work the graveyard shift on the beat long enough, you’ll drink any crap above lukewarm just to stay awake.”

Not that anything, even temperature, ever improves the flavour. The high temperature of the coffee gives Will a few moments of respite before his tastebuds recover from their flash-scalding and register what kind of _ swill _ had just passed across them, sending an indignant message straight down to Will’s stomach that it should join them in their protest, one brief queasy _ lurch _in Will’s abdomen that sends a grimace twisting across his face.

“God, has this actually gotten _ worse _since the last time I was down here?”

Seemingly holding her own cup of coffee more for its heat than for having any plans to actually drink it, Beverly does her best not to look too relieved that Will’s tastebuds still appear to be in functioning order (and/or that the omega beside her isn’t some kind of alien in disguise). “Tell me it’s any better in the teacher’s lounge and I’ll tell you you’re a liar.”

“I wouldn’t know, haven’t been there in a while.” Off Beverly’s inquiring look, Will explains: “Ericson keeps asking me out, and it’s only gotten worse since I got back.”

“Ericson, no, really? But he’s so- And you’re so-” Beverly pauses mid-gawk, catching sight of Will’s pointedly raised eyebrow and tactfully deciding not to finish her last sentence. She coughs, and retreats behind the rim of her cup to regather her social awareness. “Well, clearly you’re not interested.”

“Nope,” says Will, letting the _ p _ pop into a sigh before he takes another sip of coffee. “But he’s a single alpha; I’m a single omega, and, most importantly, we work at the same place. Obviously, we were meant to _ be._”

Ericson: Professor Clive Ericson. A good-natured older alpha, interesting when discussing his work on gangs and gang behaviour, but fairly dull otherwise and half in love with his vegetable garden of heirloom tomatoes. It’s not the first time Will has been hit on by a fellow professor, but Will’s not sure what to do about Ericson at the moment. Unlike Will’s students, Will can scent more than lust and casual yearning on the alpha when they interact; Ericson seems to be developing _ feelings_, and has so far remained genially oblivious to Will’s attempts to both avoid him and gently let him down. If Will rebukes him more firmly, it could sour their working relationship - and Ericson is the more well-liked professor of the two of them, both amongst their colleagues and their students. Will would be seen as the injurious party, even in the unlikely event someone _ doesn’t _maliciously suggest Will, as an omega, had led Ericson on.

“Doesn’t hurt you’re not bad-looking under all that… that,” Beverly says, waving her hand up and down in a vague gesture that Will assumes is meant to encompass his general person and/or presentation. Truly, a backhanded compliment, for which Will offers her a rather dry _ thanks_. “He’s gotta have - what? At least 15 years on you? Wouldn’t matter if there was mutual attraction there, but Ericson’s punching a bit above his weight. I mean. He’s _ nice. _ He _ is _nice, isn’t he?”

If Will possessed even one ounce of sexual attraction for Ericson, the age gap would be the exact _ opposite _of a problem. As it is - “Nice, sure.”

“Just not…”

“Just not,” Will agrees, and drinks more of his coffee. His tastebuds have grudgingly adjusted to the awful taste and no longer try to make his entire digestive system rebel against him, internal organs shocked into submission by rapid repeated exposure.

Beverly whistles quietly - “Damning with faint praise.” - before falling into the social trap of mimicking her conversational partner - in this case, swallowing a mouthful of her own still-hot coffee.

Will fails to hide his grin at her disgusted face, tapping the tabletop beside them and the sheets of the gruesome case file spread across it. “Tell me about this case.”

Beverly does. 

A group of boys out exploring the woods had found the worst kind of secret ‘garden’: a crop of seven corpses in a row of shallow graves, of mixed sex and dynamics, in various stages of decay with the bodies given over to rampantly-thriving wild moulds and fungi. A single arm of each victim had been fixed in place above the surface of the earth like a mushroom's cap, with an intravenous line in each. Decomposition had been enthusiastically encouraged; digging the bodies up had revealed them all to be buried in high-nutrient compost - noticeable, as the surrounding earth in the forest had been clay-based -, the victims’ distinguishing features eaten away by the fungal growth, making it nearly impossible to tell how long they’d been in the ground.

The victims had been buried alive with the intention of keeping them that way, at least for a little while. One of the ‘corpses’ had still been alive when the FBI had dug him up, just as ravaged as the luckier dead beside him, but had died en-route to the hospital. All of the victims had had their eyes, noses and mouths covered with duct tape, fitted with breathing tubes that connected to a single air supply system: a plastic tube sticking up out of the ground at the end of the ‘garden’, with an umbrella over it to keep off rain. Not very efficient, which meant it hadn’t been a priority for the unsub.

Their killer certainly isn’t lazy, Will surmises, flicking through reports as Beverly speaks. It takes time and effort to kidnap seven people, transporting them out to the woods without anyone noticing and burying them all in a row. Filling the ground with high-grade fertiliser and waiting around to see a crop of fungi grow. Stashing a thirty gallon drum of pesticide in a hollow tree nearby to keep the ‘garden’ healthy, and setting a circle of small animal traps in the surrounding woods to prevent local wildlife digging up an easy meal.

A rusted Radio Flyer wagon found beside the pesticide, fertiliser in its trunk, explains how the unsub had transported his victims out to the woods, but there are still plenty of questions to be asked.

Will frowns down at the photographs on the table again, his eye caught by the images of the catheters in the victims’ arms, limbs and intravenous lines fixed in place with twine and sections of rebar. “What was in the lines?”

“Still waiting on the tests coming back,” Beverly says apologetically. Sets down her coffee and goes to rummage in her half-forgotten bag for her own burrito, dark hair swinging about her face. Lunchtime waits for no constitution, however delicate. “It shouldn’t be long, but. Watched pots, and all that.”

Will _ hm_s. “And there were no restraints present? They weren’t bound? Nothing to stop them from crawling out?”

“Just dirt, and not a lot of it.”

“Alive, but unable to move.”

Unconscious, then. A garden of the sleeping and the dead.

Images of the crime scene already firmly fixed in mind, Will takes a slow, deep breath in to the count of four, exhaling the same, and closes his eyes. In the darkness there behind his lids a shining golden pendulum swings, _ fwum, fwum, _to the steady rhythm of his heart. And there, beyond it -

The crime scene in reverse. The police and FBI presence disappears, tape, markers and body-bags removed, agents and investigators vanishing back amongst the trees. The fungus spread across the forest floor shrinks, and the exhumed graves once more become a row of sack-covered arms - save the seventh grave, still yawning wide open and waiting to be filled with the victim who will live only long enough, quite unintentionally, to be raised from the earth again. The air is heavy with the filler scents of the forest around Wolf Trap, provided by Will’s memory to match the scenery, and sweet, stinking, mulchy rot.

_ Fwum, fwum_.

Will can feel the heft of a shovel in his hands, the weight of wet, pungent black dirt on the blade. Next to him is the Radio Flyer wagon from the case file, its trunk overflowing with the same fresh fertiliser he’s moving, and at his feet is the shallow open grave. It’s no longer empty; a naked man is lying there now on his back, his eyes closed to Will crouching down at his side, shoving an oxygen tube up his nose and taping it in place.

“I choose this man. I do not bind his arms or legs as I bury him in a shallow grave.”

Covering the man’s eyes and mouth with more tape, and tethering his arm to a piece of planted rebar. Catheter inserted and fixed in place.

“He is alive but will never be conscious again.”

_ Fwum, fwum. _

Will climbs up out of the grave, hand against its rim to brace himself. He has dark reddish clay under his nails, and, for a moment, it reminds Will of something, a stray fleeting half-thought that refuses to resolve itself. No matter. Shovel grabbed again, Will stands over his victim and begins to fill in the compost on top of him, shifting the dirt from the trunk of the wagon to the grave.

“He won't know he's dying. I don't need him to. This is my design.”

Will turns away to get another shovelful of dirt - and when he looks back again, the edges of his victim flicker under the compost already heaped atop him, Garret Jacob Hobbs lying in the open grave where another body should be, staring up at Will accusingly.

Shock punches the air out of Will’s chest and he jerks back from the grave-

Hot coffee sloshes over his hand, and Will hisses through his teeth.

“Careful,” Beverly says sympathetically, and Will has to squeeze his eyes shut against the concern in her expression, stilling the nervous twitch of his forearm under the touch of her hand. “Did you burn yourself?”

The forest is gone. Will is back in the break room attached to the Quantico labs with Beverly Katz, the skin of his hand pink from the heat of his spilled coffee, dark spots of it on his shirtsleeve. The table in front of him is strewn with reports and photographs, words and pictures, pale corpses and vibrant fungi.

Will breathes out, in, and out again. The forest is gone from his nose, replaced by the scent of Beverly’s amber and vanilla. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

Beverly is interrupted before she can say anything else, Jimmy Price sweeping into the room and immediately zeroing in on the bag of food Beverly brought from the cafeteria.

“Ooo, food!”

“I told you about it at least ten minutes ago,” Beverly complains, but moves away from Will to nudge the bag over into Price’s grabbing hands, a half-eaten burrito still in her other hand. Alpha-providing again to another omega. Her own coffee has vanished. “This is why we don’t get hot food.”

“Advances in cheap disposal insulated packaging are being made every day,” Price tells her primly, but turns his smile on Will where Will is busy drying his hand with a crumpled tissue from his pocket, coffee set down. Will’s skin tingles as he scrubs at it, but he’s avoided a bad burn. “Hello, stranger. You fly south for winter?”

Will bites back the unkind retort on the tip of his tongue about how the Quantico labs are hardly a seasonal migrator’s paradise, saved by a rather grumpy-looking Brian Zeller coming up behind Price to pull a burrito out of the bag in the other man’s grasp.

“Really showing your priorities there,” he tells Price, picking at the foil wrapping. Food first, then guests.

“Oh, it’s fine,” says Will, because he actually often enjoys being overlooked when it means people aren’t _ asking _him things. “I’m not here.”

“_Jack,_” Beverly stage-whispers, before taking another bite of her burrito.

“Invisible man routine, got it,” says Price, cheery spirits undaunted. More loftily, to Zeller: “Few things take priority over an empty stomach.”

“I think mine might be staying empty for a little while longer,” Zeller says, finally noting the case file and its gruesome contents spread out over the table in front of them all. “Working lunch?”

“I have another class shortly,” Will explains, wondering whether it’s even worth his effort to dab at the stains on his shirt with the already-soiled tissue. His wrist is going to smell like terrible coffee for the rest of the day, even if he washes his hands in the bathroom.

“No rest for the wicked,” Price says sagely, and nods his head down at the photographs. “You know, they were very well-fertilised, all of them, buried in a highly concentrated mixture of hardwoods, shredded newspaper, and pig poop. Perfect for growing mushrooms and other fungi.”

Zeller, who, despite his words, had made a half-hearted attempt at unwrapping his burrito, makes a face and wraps the food back up again. “Cause of death wasn’t the mushrooms though. What killed all of them was kidney failure.”

“The tests came in?” Beverly asks with interest.

Price nods around a generous mouthful of beans and rice, mumbling something that sounds like _ duck stores. _

“Dextrose,” Zeller translates for the uninitiated. “In all the catheters? Unsub probably used some kind of dialysis or peristaltic to pump fluids after the circulatory systems broke down.”

Will frowns. “Force-feeding them sugar water.”

Price swallows his mouthful and then says, much more intelligibly than before, “You know who loves sugar water? Mushrooms. They crave it. As much as a mushroom can crave anything.”

“Recovering alcoholics crave sugar,” adds Zeller. Waits a beat, and then only to Price: “Don't take that personally.”

“Oh, I'm not recovering,” says Price without rancour, and takes another large bite of his burrito.

Thus reassured, Zeller continues, “Feed sugar to fungus in your body, the fungus makes alcohol. It's friends helping friends really.”

Beverly joins Will in frowning, swallowing the last bite of her lunch and crumpling its wrapping in a ball in her hand. “Is someone preying on recovering alcoholics? Other than themselves?”

“Alcoholics aren't the only ones with compromised endocrine systems,” Will reminds them all, sifting quickly through his thoughts and tilting his head towards Zeller. There’s something there, dots almost connected into a larger picture - “They all died of kidney failure?” Zeller nods, and - _ there. _ “Death by diabetic ketoacidosis.”

“Did you know they were diabetics?” Beverly asks Zeller.

Zeller frowns. “We don't know they're diabetics.”

“They're all diabetics,” Will says, firm as fact is fact, and grabs his coffee again. “He induces a coma and puts them in the ground.”

“How is he inducing diabetic comas?” Beverly asks Will, barely suppressing her smile at Zeller’s obvious disgruntlement.

“He changes their medication. He's a doctor or a pharmacist or works somewhere in medical services.”

“He buries them, feeds them sugar to keep them alive long enough for the circulatory systems to soak it up...”

“So he can feed the mushrooms,” Price chimes in.

Diabetics to feed the mushrooms, and the growth of the mushrooms is what their killer wants.

The peevishness of Zeller’s expression fades into grim realisation. “...We dug up his mushroom garden.”

“He'll want to grow a new one,” says Will, and takes another swig of his much cooler coffee whilst they digest that thought. (Time does _ not _improve the drink’s flavour.) More idly, he queries, “Considering I was never here, which one of you will be taking this to Jack?”

There’s a significant pause as Will _ hears _ Beverly, Zeller and Price’s brains shift gears - and the three leap in at once, Price still with a mouth full of food, all scrabbling to be the first to go _ not it._

  


*****

  


Setting up in Abigail’s hospital room gets easier every time Will does it, his visits settling into an almost comforting routine. It’s a good thing too; Will had slept poorly the night before, nightmares waking him at two, three and half past four in the morning. The last one had had him sitting bolt upright in bed so fast the muscles in his back still ache from it that afternoon, yanking up the hem of his t-shirt to reassure himself that a cluster of mushrooms hadn’t sprouted from his torso whilst he slept, gills fluttering on the stalks where they’d burrowed into his lungs. With his mind still insisting that his trembling fingers were coloured with clay and mould and that the air around him was full of fungal spores, Will had given up on sleep after that, letting the dogs out early for their morning romp around the house, their barks and a cup of steaming coffee greeting the weak dawn.

_ After _Will had gotten dressed, of course. He can’t quite stand to let his bare feet touch earth at the moment, pale toes against dark dirt too reminiscent of his dreams.

(“Why does the unsub want mushrooms?” Will had wondered the day before in the Quantico labs, half to himself, half to the still-attentive Beverly. Price had moved on from his burrito to a vanilla pudding cup, whilst Zeller had decided to risk the coffee. “He didn’t harvest from his crop.”

Unhelpfully, Price had only hummed around the spoon in his mouth, but Beverly had considered the question - before she, too, could only shrug. “Maybe we found his garden before he had the opportunity?”)

So, half-asleep after an early start and a morning class, Will unpacks his workbag on autopilot, pulling Abigail’s table over to the cushioned seat he’s taken by her bed. Pens, a stack of papers to grade, his laptop to input the grades as he goes along.

Abigail’s room is a good place to work: the time between lunch and first visiting hours (that Will can take advantage of due to his association with the FBI) at the hospital is quiet up in the less-intensive wards, with staff taking their lunch-breaks and non-comatose patients often napping off the effects of their own meals and the latest round of their medications. Abigail, still deep in her coma, is hardly noisy company, and Will’s jangled nerves are soothed by being able to watch her breathe, listening to the regular beat of her heart monitor.

The scent of the lemon cleanser used to recently mop the floors is initially a little intrusive, eliminating the perfumes and natural scents of any visitors to the room, but the bright citrus smell is infinitely more homely than the sharper scent of antiseptic that clings to Abigail’s skin - leftover traces of the disinfectant wet wipes used to prepare the girl for her various injections. A bouquet of closed blue-purple gentians holds pride of place on Abigail’s bedside cabinet (the vase stands alone there, with no competition), though the infamously scentless flowers do nothing to assuage the sterility of the air around them, bright to look at but easy to forget.

Will gets about a quarter of the way through his marking before he needs to take a break - or else risk slamming his face off the table in front of him in the hopes it might blind him to his students’ piss-poor profiling skills and basic spelling and grammar errors.

The outrageous claims lacking in all supporting evidence that some of Will’s students try to pass off to him as profiles are par for the course, but is spellcheck not a thing any more? To be accepted to the FBI Academy, trainees need a recommendation from a superior in their previous area(s) of work and/or study, but Will has to wonder at the validity of those recommendations when the _ last _ submission he’d just read had spelled ‘crime scene’ correctly exactly _ once _ in several thousand words. Agents out in the field are supposed to be able to give a clear and concise summation of incidents in their reports, but if Will lets _ this _batch of trainees loose into the FBI without some sort of reprimand for the lazy editing of their work, whoever reads their reports one day is going to be reading about ‘cream scenes’ and ‘chrome scents’ instead of information useful for investigating cases of serial homicide, drug smuggling, and domestic terrorism.

_ Cream scene, _honestly. Had the unsub been allergic to dairy?

Will walks around the room to stretch his legs, idly rotating his wrist to relieve some of the ache built up there from holding his pen. The view from the window is nothing startling - hospital buildings, mostly, with a few trees and shrubs lining the walkways between buildings with shades of green and autumnal oranges -, but it allows great swathes of clean, warm sunshine into the room, the blinds opened to admit as much cheeriness indoors as the weather will allow.

When he closes his eyes, the warmth of the sun on Will’s face is something damn near therapeutic. The space behind his closed eyes is filled with nothing for a few moments but peace shaded balmy black and gold, a hot night full of fireflies on the edges of the bayou.

Which makes the intrusion of two women talking not-too-quietly in the hallway just outside the ward all the more abrupt.

“- she’s daddy’s little murderess.”

“_Shh._”

“Don’t _ shh _ me; I’m telling you, whether she helped kill those girls or not, she has _ got _ to have eaten them.” Will’s eyes snap open to a painful blare of sunlight, the tone of the woman speaking turning conspiratorially salacious. “Lounds has got it right - why do you think all the feds keep hovering ‘round? She’s a killer and a _ cannibal._”

They’re obviously talking about Abigail. Right outside the comatose girl’s ward where anyone can hear them - including Abigail, if what they say about people in comas still hearing things around them is true.

_ Disgusting. _ Will’s lips curls.

“If she were a killer,” the second woman reasons, “she’d be in cuffs.”

Her companion isn’t to be convinced. “What’s the point in cuffing a sleeper? No, they’ll want her awake for a confession.”

“If they need a confession, they can’t prove she did anything bad.”

“‘Course she did something _ bad, _ Lisa. She _ ate people._”

Will stalks towards the door, furious about the indiscreet gossiping.

“Not a crime to eat people if you don’t know you’re doing it, or someone made you do it.”

“Bet you’ll say her daddy _ made _her help him kill those other girls too.”

“I’m saying _ nothing. _ Girl’s in a damn coma, Evie. All we gotta do is make sure she gets well enough someone _ else _ can ask her these questions. Not our job to handle that.”

“No,” Will grinds out, taking some small vicious pleasure when the two women - nurses, by the colour of their scrubs - standing by the desk a few metres down from Abigail’s room jump at the sound of his voice and the sight of him standing in Abigail’s doorway. Caught red-handed. “It’s _ not._”

Both nurses have gone pale.

One opens her mouth - _ Evie, _by the sound of her, Abigail’s accuser. “We were just -”

“You were ‘_just’ _ gossiping and spreading malicious rumours about a vulnerable patient under your care,” Will cuts in, holding back none of his scathing disgust. Fists clenched, his nails bite into his palms. “_Right outside her ward._”

Evie’s cheeks flush a dull, defensive red. “All the blogs are saying it -”

“Does reading a few _ blogs _ exempt you from your duty of care?” Will snaps, and Evie turns even redder. “Or - hell - _ common decency?! _ How can you stand there and pass judgement on a young girl who isn’t even awake to defend herself? _ Walk away,_” Will advises Evie harshly, when it looks like the woman is about to say something else, “and get yourself assigned to another ward. If I see you here again, I’ll be speaking to the head nurse and putting in a formal complaint.”

Evie gives Will one last, blazingly indignant look, but takes Will’s advice and turns on her heel, stalking down the corridor away from Abigail’s room and Will’s castigation.

Will’s gaze slides to the other nurse still standing there. Pink-faced, but radiating more shame than her friend had done. Lisa.

“You spoke in Miss Hobbs’ defence.”

“Figured it’s none of my business what people have done before they end up in hospital,” Lisa murmurs, some of the stiffness of her shoulders relaxing when it becomes clear Will isn’t going to give her a tongue-lashing as well, “as long as it doesn’t impact how I’m supposed to look after them. You get all sorts.”

Will merely hums, not impressed at someone reaching the low bar for humanity, and makes to go back inside Abigail’s room.

“It really is everywhere online,” Lisa says, and Will pauses. Gives the nurse a questioning look. “_Tattlecrime _ ran an article on it this morning. Claimed to have it sourced straight from the FBI.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” Will says shortly - but goes back to Abigail’s bedside so he can pull up the web browser on his laptop, sitting down and rubbing thoughtlessly at an ache in his chest.

_ Tattlecrime_. The name is very vaguely familiar to Will in a way that suggests he isn’t going to like what he’s about to see whatsoever - and is proved correct in very short order when a rather luridly designed true crime blog loads up on the screen before him, one clickbait article listed for viewing after another with ads to the side and in between.

There are two fairly recent articles about the mushroom-covered corpses in the woods, but the top article had been posted just that morning: _ BIRDS OF A FEATHER?_

Below the headline is a photograph of Abigail awake and smiling, obviously taken from some kind of school yearbook. And beside the photograph is a complete, if badly-written, regurgitation of all of Jack Crawford’s suspicions about Abigail Hobbs’ involvement in her serial killer father’s crimes.

“Fuck,” says Will. And then, more vehemently, _ “Fuck!” _ Slamming his laptop shut.

If this kind of _ horseshit _ stays in circulation, the general public will crucify Abigail regardless of her innocence, transferring her from the fear of her father’s shadow to the fear of _ everyone’s._

Even worse, the fear-mongering in the article has clearly got _ some _ kind of basis, taken from _ some _kind of source in the FBI. It’s too close to Jack’s queries, Jack’s wording of those queries, for comfort.

Will’s phone rings. It’s Beverly, and, for a minute, Will thinks she’s calling about the article, about a leak in the FBI, but -

“Will, hi.” Beverly sounds harried, but still too friendly for it to be about the article. Noise in the background from her end: people’s voices barking orders, moving feet. “Do you do phone consults? Please say you do phone consults.”

Will can’t say they’re something he’s really tried before. He sits back in his seat, letting the cushioned back of the chair support his neck. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Me. Me, I’m asking. Well, honestly, Jack is asking, but not for consults. He asked me and the Tweedles questions, and this is me, asking you.”

“...You’re in the field,” Will realises, closing his eyes again and re-evaluating the background noises from Beverly’s end of the call, laying it over the sound of the heart monitor in the room with him.

She’s indoors somewhere. Not Quantico. With armed agents. Apprehending a suspect?

“Out picking mushrooms,” Beverly confirms, and tucks the phone in a little more closely to her face. Her voice, when she speaks next, is louder, and Will hears her breath in the receiver. “And their gardener. He’s a pharmacist, like you said. Eldon Stammets. We found a string of missing diabetic persons: all customers of the same pharmacy chain, all who disappeared after filling in an insulin prescription. The last two from our location, last one yesterday, the same place where this guy works. Worked, maybe. We hit it, but he’s gone already. Left early, claiming he was sick.”

“Gone home?”

“People we sent to his location say no. And no car in the drive.” Explaining why Beverly - and no doubt the other agents with her - sounds so harried. “Got any idea where he’ll have gone?”

The answer is obvious. “He’ll have gone off to plant his latest victim.”

“In his mushroom garden?”

Will nods - and then remembers Beverly can’t see him. “Not the one we’ve hit; that’s ruined for him now. Another garden, somewhere new.” And Will doesn’t know where, doesn’t know this killer well enough yet to even attempt a proper guess aside from somewhere woody and secluded. _ Why mushrooms? _ “I don’t know where, Bev; I’m sorry. Best I can suggest is you get teams searching the woods where we found his last garden, get the dogs going after his scent. Maybe he’ll have dug down somewhere nearby. Run the plates on his new vehicle - he must have bought one recently to replace his wagon, so he can transport his victims.”

Beverly sighs, but accepts it. “Thanks, Will. I’ll tell Jack. Think he knows we’re onto him?”

Of course the suspect - _ Stammets _ \- knows the FBI is onto him.

“If he didn’t before, he certainly will now the feds have gone after his workplace and his house.” Since he can’t help her any further from where he is, Will changes the subject. “Not to make your day any worse, but has Jack read _ Tattlecrime _ at all recently?”

“_Tattlecrime_? That crappy true crime blog?”

“Tell him to bring up the latest article,” Will says - and then recalls the recent posts on the site about Beverly’s case as well. If the blog had insider information about Abigail, maybe there’s something there that shouldn’t _be_ there about their gardener as well. “Articles.”

“Doesn’t sound good,” says Beverly, and Will _ mm_s back at her. He doesn’t envy her if she’s there when Jack actually pulls up the blog. “I’m really beginning to hate when you delegate, do you know that?”

It’s a bitter thing, but Beverly’s comment makes Will laugh for the first time that day.

“Consider it my consulting fee.”

The hospital is comparatively quiet again when Will hangs up. There’s a few more people in the corridors now, staff and patients, but Abigail still continues to sleep the deep sleep of the comatose beside Will.

He watches her silently for a few moments, pacing his breathing to the slow rise-fall of her chest.

Will has no idea what he’s going to say to Abigail when she eventually wakes up, but he’ll have to say _ something. _ Needs to see her get better from this, no longer her father’s victim, not further victimised by the ignorant masses led by the likes of _ Tattlecrime_.

Until then, however, Will has some terrible essays to grade. It’ll be visiting hours at the hospital soon, and he wants to leave before someone else might get it into their heads to drop in on Abigail. He can return again in the evening, when the hospital lies half under a blanket of sleep.

_Cream scenes _disappear under the strike of his red pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Canard_: (duck) 1, a duck. 2, an unfounded or baseless, often derogatory, rumor or anecdote. 3, a slang word for _newspaper_. 4, a piece of sugar slightly soused with coffee or cognac (or another strong alcohol), and more.
> 
> More _Amuse-Bouche_ this chapter.
> 
> Hannibal’s comment about Will’s monologue vs. Tedeschi’s _Forensic Science_ comes from an extract in _Red Dragon_ (where it’s actually Brian Zeller that first mentions Will’s work, rather than Beverly in the show):  
_“You're reading Tedeschi.”_  
_“Yes,” Zeller said over his shoulder. “We don't do any forensic medicine here, as you know, but Tedeschi has a lot of useful things in there. Graham. Will Graham. You wrote the standard monograph on determining time of death by insect activity, didn't you. Or do I have the right Graham?”_  
_“I did it.” A pause. “You're right, Mant and Nuorteva in the Tedeschi are better on insects.”_  
_Zeller was surprised to hear his thought spoken. “Well, it does have more pictures and a table of invasion waves. No offense.”_  
_“Of course not. They're better. I told them so.”_
> 
> I took a break from editing and rewatched _Amuse-Bouche_ to double-check I was hitting all the notes I wanted for this chapter, and, for the first time, actually noticed Will’s carrying around some kind of hot beverage (assumedly coffee) in the scene in the lab where he figures out the victims are all diabetics. Just parks that cup of his on one of the slabs beside a dead, fungus-covered body whilst unnamed specialists examine the corpse. _Real hygienic_. Is there not a no food/drink in the lab rule? Why is there not a no food/drink in the lab rule? At least when there are corpses out in the open. _Will._
> 
> In standard (western) floriography, closed gentians mean _sweet dreams_.
> 
> I spent way too long researching this, but there are [no laws in the USA specifically outlawing cannibalism except in Idaho.](http://www.weirduniverse.net/blog/comments/is_cannibalism_illegal) A bit more on cannibalism in American law [here](https://www.law.cornell.edu/wex/cannibalism).


	4. rissole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone seeks connection, one way or another. Will dreams and dreams again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, and a very happy Easter to you all. It’s hard to believe that when I first started writing this chapter, my biggest distraction was _Death Stranding_.  
Please note the updated fic tags; they’re very relevant to this chapter. If you don’t want to see body horror featuring fungi in your dream-threesomes, depart the third scene at _fungi_. It’s safe to return at _mankind_.

The part that Will finds strangest later is that he never questions the presence of the black stag in the corridor. The stag simply _ is, _ drifting placidly down the hospital hallway like a dark cloud across the moon, its antlers heavy atop its head and hooves clicking like the quiet rhythmic _ tick _ of a clock.

Fish-hook buried in his heart, Will is drawn from his seat and follows.

Aside from the stag and Will, the corridor is empty. There are no nurses at their station, no doctors, patients or porters wandering the halls. Most of the doorways of the hall yawn wide, dark and empty with the wards beyond them silent, but even the ones showing bald light yield no signs of life. Blinds are drawn closed over all the windows, slats bordered by thin slivers of forbidding night, and the overhead lights hum on the very edge of audible, raising the hairs on the back of Will’s neck.

The stag continues unhindered. The animal seems not to care that Will has been brought so close to it in the confines of the hospital halls - nor that Will has now stopped, feet planted to the floor and watching as the stag steps placidly away from him. Its dark pelt is glossy even under the cheap and unforgiving electric lights above, the hide made up of feathers, slick with unknown oils, rather than fur.

Still, that does not seem strange.

The stag turns a corner, out of Will’s sight, and the lights at the end of the corridor go out. Then the ones next to them, and the ones next to _ them _ follow suit - one by one, the lights click off, and the deep and silent darkness rushes towards Will as he stands there waiting for the wave, his eyes drifting shut just as night swallows him whole.

In the darkness, he hears Alana Bloom.

“He and the grandmother discussed better times.”

At the bottom of the thick black ocean, Will stirs. He struggles upwards towards consciousness with the gradual awareness of his own slow, deep breaths, slowly prising his eyes open though his lashes are still sticky with the saltwater of his dreams.

What greets him upon surfacing is the sight of Abigail’s hospital bed, Alana sitting barefoot on the mattress beside the comatose girl and reading aloud from a book in her lap. The evening sun is still shining through the windows and the room smells comfortingly like violets - or at least, the little space around Will does. The sweet perfume rises up faintly from the hospital blanket tugged up over Will’s shoulders where he is half-lying on the private ward’s couch, grey material tucked gently under his chin.

Will hadn’t fallen asleep with a blanket over him. Not that he had meant to fall asleep. Sure, he’d rolled up his jacket to pillow his head on the couch’s arm, but he’d just meant to rest his eyes for a few minutes, take a break from watching out for the gossiping Evie of that afternoon. But he’d closed his eyes...

Still sleepy, Will fists the thin material of the blanket and brings it to his face, letting the drowsy drag-sensation of the weave against his nose wake him up a little more, enjoying the scent of Alana’s perfume still clinging to the fabric. He breathes, deep and slow, and listens to her voice.

“The old lady said that, in her opinion, Europe was entirely to blame for the way things were now. She said-”

“What are you reading?” 

Alana startles, and jerks to look back over her shoulder at Will.

Will hadn’t meant for his question to come out so abruptly, but his sleep-rough throat had cracked out the words from the bottom of the chasm still threatening to tug him back under, his mind and tongue and limbs all still warm and heavy with dreams.

Recovering quickly from her surprise and seeing Will awake, Alana smiles: the break of a slow and golden sunrise after an early summer’s night.

Will lets it warm him; Abigail hardly counts as real company at the moment, so Alana has as good as placed herself alone with Will again. It’s beginning to become something of a - hope-inducing - habit for her.

“Flannery O'Connor. When I was Abigail's age I was obsessed. I even tried to raise peacocks because she raised peacocks, but…” Alana’s expression turns rueful, “they are _ really _ stupid birds.”

Will’s gaze slides past her to the third in the room. “You could be reading to a killer.”

“Innocent until guilty… and all that.”

“Not according to Miss Freddie Lounds of _ Tattlecrime.com._”

Alana sighs. “The _ Birds of a Feather _ article.”

“Yes,” Will says, and props himself up on the couch so he can stretch his arms above him, careful not to let his blanket slip to the floor, “_that_.” 

“I’ve started arrangements for Abigail’s transfer to Port Haven,” Alana says, and swings her legs off the bed one after the other so she can turn and look at Will more directly. “I wanted to wait until she had woken up, but with that article drawing such attention to her…”

Will avoids her eyes, his own gaze still settled on Abigail’s wan features surrounded by tape and tubes. “The bereaved and the scandalised are looking for someone to blame.”

“The Minnesota Shrike is dead.”

“And Abigail Hobbs doesn’t deserve to be punished for her father’s crimes.” No matter what the Freddie Loundses of the world have to say about it, whether they gossip about it on online blogs or in hospital hallways. Will’s lip curls into a sneer at the memory. “She’s been assigned to your psychiatric care when she wakes?” Alana nods. “Good.”

Alana, unlike many other psychiatrists that Will has become acquainted with over the years, _ always _puts her patients first.

Alana allows herself a smile, and the mirthful swell of it tugs Will away from the darker corners of his thoughts. “I’ll take the compliment of your rare endorsement.”

“I endorse plenty,” Will protests.

“In quantity rather than in variety,” Alana teases him, “as long as it comes in a form with four legs, a wet nose, and a tendency to go _ woof._”

“The local wildlife would like us a great deal more if all they _ did _ was go _ woof._” Will sighs, and stretches again, feeling the bones _ click _ back into place in his spine. “Remind me to invite you over sometime so you can hear Buster’s ongoing feud with the squirrels. Little dog. _ Lots _ of noise.”

Alana laughs. “The best things come in small bundles,” she reminds Will.

“Yeah, tell that to the squirrels.”

Alana laughs again, and Will takes a slow breath in, his own smile pulling at his mouth as his head lolls back against the back of the couch behind him. “...Abigail is a success for you.”

From little dogs to little women. Will lets the slow breath out again. “She doesn't look like a success.”

“Don't feel sorry for yourself because you saved this girl's life.”

“I don't,” Will says, soft and wondering at realising the truth of his words even as he speaks them. He lifts his head again. “I don't feel sorry for myself_ at all_. I feel, uh… I feel, um. Good.”

Alana looks pleased by the admission, so Will cannot help but add self-deprecatingly: “Maybe it was the nap.”

“You were fast asleep when I arrived,” Alana says gently. “You looked tired, so I-” She gestures at Will vaguely, glancing away with her cheeks faintly pink.

_ So I didn’t want to wake you. _

_ So I brought you a blanket, and tucked you in. _

Will’s fingers are still twisted in the blanket - his shirt and hands will carry the trace scent of Alana’s perfume for the rest of the evening. Violets and care.

“Thank you,” says Will, and means it. He smiles crookedly, letting his shoulders rise and fall in a flustered shrug. “I was- actually, I was just enjoying listening to you read.”

“Really?” Will nods, and Alana’s fingers flex in their grip on her book. “I could…” She looks down at the open pages on her lap. “I won’t be offended if you fall asleep again.”

“Promise?” Will asks her wryly, for his limbs are still warm and sleep-heavy, and the quiet comforting cadence of Alana’s reading might work on him as a lullaby.

Alana merely brings one of her legs up onto the bed with the rest of her again, bending it at the knee and tucking its ankle beneath her opposing thigh, before picking up where she had left off in her story, reading to the room. “The old lady said that, in her opinion, Europe was entirely to blame for the way things were now. She said the way Europe acted you would think we were made of money and Red Sam said it was no use talking about it, she was exactly right.”

  


*****

  


Certain sights have grown familiar to Hannibal when visiting the mysterious Miss Abigail Hobbs in her hospital room. Nurses taking her vitals, and moving the comatose girl on occasion to prevent muscle wastage and bed sores. Cleaners emptying the room’s bin and mopping the floor. A few doctors. A harried nameless FBI agent, checking in on behalf of Jack Crawford. Alana Bloom, visiting between hours at work and home. Most often, Will Graham, drinking terrible coffee from the hospital food court as he alternates marking his students’ work with forlornly watching Abigail breathe.

Before Will had decided to start avoiding both general visiting hours and Hannibal.

Domesticity is something new. A heartwarming snapshot from a tv advert, a movie’s reflective post-denouement scene.

Visiting Abigail alone, Alana tends towards gentle, concerned professionalism. Will, in comparison, is always entirely emotionally compromised and poor at hiding it, restless with his thoughts and too uncomfortable to settle in the ward though he makes vain attempt after vain attempt to do so anyway. Belongings determinedly spread out around his fidgeting limbs as a cry of persistence, asserting his right to be there even as he privately questions that right himself.

Together, the two of them have contrived to paint a different picture in the evening light: Alana, reading aloud with her legs tucked up beneath her on the hospital bed, and Will, not comatose but still joining Abigail in her dreams, slipped sideways on the hospital room’s cream two-seater with a blanket sliding off his shoulders, his tousled head pillowed on the faded green of his folded-up jacket.

Hannibal stands at the door unnoticed, his bag over his shoulder and his arms full of flowers - a new bouquet, to replace Abigail’s wilting gentians. Sunflowers, for Hannibal’s pride in the girl’s stubborn cling to life. Burgundy and pink roses, both to acknowledge Abigail’s unconscious beauty and to show that the world is not lacking in affection, even for the daughter of a killer. Germini, the smaller sisters of gerbera daisies, for Abigail’s youth, a gentle hearkening to innocence lost. All wrapped in the berries and deep dark foliage of fall, the rich golden season of death and the reaper that is upon them.

“‘Jesus was the only One that ever raised the dead,’ The Misfit continued,” the character’s accent given strange voice in Alana’s serious tones, “‘and He shouldn’t have done it. He shown everything off balance. If He did what He said, then it’s nothing for you to do but thow away everything and follow Him, and if He didn’t, then it’s nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can - by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him.’”

A compelling argument for the faithful.

“I see great minds think alike,” Hannibal says, fixing his lips into a smile as Alana lifts her head to look at him. 

She looks a little embarrassed to have been caught in such a casual moment, gaze flickering down to her lap again for a moment to check the rucked-up hemline of her dress, but she remains relaxed overall, the general blanket of tranquillity draped across the ward undisturbed by Hannibal’s entrance. Even the evening sunlight is determined to acknowledge him as little as possible; the windows face roughly westward, and the incoming light leaves Hannibal’s shadow behind him as he steps further into the room. 

“Hannibal. You saw the article.”

“It’s causing quite a stir,” Hannibal says mildly, leaving his hands pointedly full of rustling flowers as he lets the strap of his bag awkwardly slip off his shoulder and catch in the crook of his arm. “It would appear the great FBI has sprung a leak.”

Alana’s welcoming smile tightens. “I’ve already had words with Jack.” She sets aside her book and comes to help Hannibal with his load - revealing her lack of shoes, her heels clearly discarded so their sound might not disturb the resting. Ever considerate. “Let me help you with that. Should I get a vase?”

“One of the nurses should be along with one presently,” Hannibal says, depositing the bouquet in Alana’s open arms regardless. The arrangement seems larger in her grasp than it was in his own, autumn colours spilling from her arms and occupying Alana almost in entirety as she does her best not to crush leaves, berries or blooms. “I see you have not lost your love for the works of Flannery O’Connor.”

Alana laughs a little - pleased, though certainly embarrassed now. “You remember that.”

“But of course; you loaned me your books.” Hannibal makes a show of hesitance, still gripping his bag. “Though, Alana, I must query: _ A Good Man Is Hard to Find? _ Perhaps another of O’Connor’s might be more suitable in this environment.” He tilts his head towards the unconscious Abigail, catching Alana’s gaze as it lights with realisation. “Rather than the tale of a fractured family, and the serial killer who shoots them all.”

Hannibal’s own choice of reading material for that evening is Fleming’s English translation of _ Candide _\- arguably a piece of work as depressing to a wounded individual as Alana’s, but more subtle about it.

Alana is disturbed before she can reply by the arrival of the promised vase and Hannibal leaves her to arrange and rearrange the room’s flowers, gently lowering his bag to the ground beside the taken two-seater and following it down into a crouch to regard the couch’s occupant.

Will Graham seems remarkably comfortable sleeping in the presence of Alana Bloom. It is a strange thing to see a creature of wild restlessness so calmed; Hannibal is already accustomed to Will’s constant movement, pacing and touching and darting his eyes out of sight. Now, Will is all soft lines in his slumber, his resting shape smoothed out like the petals of the ‘rose galaxy’, frenetic stars pulled gently into place by the gravity of a nearby friend.

Or the _ smell _of one: the blanket Will has tucked up close to his face is rather tellingly scented with Alana’s perfume. More than would normally rub off someone’s fingertips or wrist from a fleeting touch.

Hannibal’s lips peel back from his teeth in an infinitesimal snarl.

Alana had only started wearing that particular perfume during her residency at Hannibal’s recommendation, after a trying few months going through various cheap, temporary blends in the hope of finding a scent that worked well with her beta body chemistry. 

Fragrance departments and boutiques are nearly always divided primarily by dynamic, with the stronger scents aimed at the beta demographic set apart from the milder products aimed at alphas and omegas.

Aside from the pheromone-heavy scents meant to emulate heat or rut, alphas and omegas are encouraged to buy lightly scented perfumes and cosmetics to add a little depth to their natural scents. These can be alternated and/or combined as an individual pleases to add variety to their life, or simply to bring a particular note in their scent to the forefront.

Conversely, betas are often subtly shamed into their scented purchases. Most betas naturally have both weaker olfactory senses and weaker scents in general - when it is not assumed that they have no scent at all. Those without distinguishing scents are frequently overlooked and patronised by society, much like the as-yet unpresented children those with weak scents are likened to.

Social advancement in any form is tied to _ presence, _ and, to have presence, one must have their own defining scent to both announce their company and to leave some mark of their passing behind them. Social sillage. Marketing utilises this idea to drive sales, suggesting that the solution to betas’ low self-esteem can be found in fragrant perfumes, colognes, aftershaves, toiletries and other enhancers.

Alana naturally has a very, very mild scent, which Hannibal thinks may be best likened to catching a small stray breeze from an open window somewhere, admitting a light breath of rain falling in the new green of spring. It is a scent both fresh and pleasing, much like the woman who exudes it - but for those with a sense of smell less sensitive than Hannibal’s, it is a scent that is sometimes incredibly difficult to detect.

In the earlier days of her residency, Alana had been frustrated by the patronising attitudes she had received from many for her lack of an ‘assertive’ or ‘adult’ scent. Though, indeed, it had been society’s poor manners at fault for Alana’s ill-treatment rather than any personal failing of her own, it must be admitted that one’s perfume or cologne is a great deal easier to change than the whole of American society - _ especially _when one is simultaneously trying to both help one’s patients and advance in a career as gruelling as medicine.

After a particularly offensive chypre-based spray Alana had tried wearing had stung Hannibal’s nose for three days straight, Hannibal had gently suggested his beta protégée try a perfume primarily violet-based instead. Something sweet and light to compliment her natural scent and match her temperament, but not so associated with the elderly or as dustily bland as lavender or lily-of-the-valley.

Now, those selfsame violets scent _ Will, _ sweet springtime encroaching on the omega’s natural winter night. Each slow draw of the profiler’s breath drags Alana’s perfume across his palate and into his lungs, her scent following Will down into his unfathomable dreams.

The thought of another treading such hallowed grounds before Hannibal, without him, is not something to be borne, so Hannibal reaches out after pulling back the cuffs on one arm, dragging his wrist quick and deliberate along both the bent collar of Will’s rumpled salmon-coloured shirt and the blanket beneath Will’s nose.

To anyone watching, it seems as though Hannibal has only caringly readjusted the blanket of a sleeping friend. But no-one _ is _ watching - Will deeply asleep and Alana still busy arranging flowers -, allowing Hannibal to rise to his full height again with proprietary satisfaction, Will Graham now as thoroughly marked with the scent of Hannibal’s spicy cologne as plausible deniability for such possessiveness will allow.

“I didn’t think of the subject matter at all,” Alana says, her thoughts still occupied by the conversation Hannibal has already relegated to a position of secondary interest, tugging at the dark green of the leaves in the vase in front of her to frame the flowers better.

Hannibal solicitously clears space for her to place the vase on Abigail’s bedside cabinet by removing the now-faded gentians there, taking the older - but still stubbornly surviving - purple flowers to the lonely windowsill. “We have all made similar missteps at one time or another, I believe. In an attempt at likewise coaxing her into levity, I once made heavy reference to _ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland _with a younger patient who had lost some members of her family in a house fire a few years before - only to later learn that amongst those that had perished in the blaze had been the family’s beloved pet rabbit.”

“Oh no - white?” Hannibal nods, and Alana winces sympathetically. “Off with your head.”

“You have the comfort at least that your audience is asleep, and likely will not remember your _ faux pas._”

“Will woke up earlier.” Alana smiles around Will’s name, a mention that might be offhand had it not evidently lightened the stress gathering on her shoulders. Hannibal really must make further discreet inquiries about the relationship between his former protégée and the omega that Jack Crawford is so desperately trying to claim as a bloodhound for the BAU. “He’s not happy about the article either.”

“Nor should anyone with an interest in Abigail’s wellbeing.”

Alana nods in agreement, mostly to herself, and finishes fiddling with the flowers. When she steps back from the bedside cabinet on her bare feet, Hannibal shifts as well to avoid looming over her.

“Did- have you and Will talked?”

“...You are very carefully not asking if Will made an appointment with me,” Hannibal discerns, keeping his countenance smooth as Alana glances at him. There is an anxious twitch in her fingers now, reaching out to close the book that she had discarded earlier on Abigail’s bed.

“You couldn’t - or shouldn’t - be answering that, not without his permission. But I can ask if the two of you have talked. Unofficially.”

Such a careful delineation. Hannibal lifts a brow, mouth quirking. “If Will and I have talked unofficially, or you are asking me unofficially if Will and I have talked?”

“...You’re teasing,” Alana realises, the mask of professionalism on her face cracking with exasperated fondness.

“I am,” Hannibal confirms, allowing his mouth to stretch more widely and put Alana at ease. “Will and I have talked, but he is not currently a patient of mine. I am not comfortable saying much more than that without his consent, but we will likely be talking again.”

Beautifully steered, Alana relaxes again. “I’m glad. I wasn’t sure how the two of you would get along since you’re both such very different people. Perhaps if I’d introduced the two of you a little sooner… but Will’s not really one to suffer unnecessary introductions.”

No, Will has already - correctly - weighed the type of people who most frequently seek introductions with him and found them wanting, magnificent in his open disdain. Even those amongst the tide of humanity that actively improve the world around them - or those whose dull lives render them too much effort to dispose of - are hampered by their own lack of understanding of Will’s gifts, too quick to turn to fear or pity rather than rightful awe. And of those left, well...

“Many introductions must become unnecessary when one is capable of reading of another’s intentions at a glance,” Hannibal surmises. “Adding the insult of lies and the banalities of small-talk, and our Will’s approach to socialisation seems almost understandable.”

Were cultivating such a wide social circle and a reputation for sociability not important for maintaining Hannibal’s position as a doyen of Baltimore society and all its attached bonuses, Hannibal would be sorely tempted to emulate him.

Alana, who has borne witness on more than a few occasions to some of Baltimore’s harpy mothers trying to entice Hannibal into bonding and/or matrimony with one of their numerous spoilt offspring, senses the more socially palatable corners of that truth and is already beginning to grin. “Should I pass that message along to your friends at the opera?”

“Note, I said ‘_almost,_’” Hannibal informs Alana archly, and smiles as she laughs, accepting her gentle joke at his expense. “Will is very lucky to have found such a stalwart friend in you, Alana.”

“And I in him,” says Alana, soft, though there is not a shred of doubt in her voice as she stands a little taller. If she were alpha or omega Hannibal would say Alana is all but purring at the compliment to both herself and her friend - before abruptly realising that someone in the room _ is _purring.

_ Will_. Will is purring. In his sleep. A quiet, even reverberation steady with the languorous rise and fall of his chest.

How fascinating. And, perhaps, how telling, if Will is prone to purring at a mere mouthful of good food, in the presence of friends, and when granted something that might nearly be called restful sleep. These things are not - _ should _ not - be luxuries, and yet Will Graham is purring when shown even an _ ounce _of affection or care.

And Alana, who had caught Will’s purr just a beat behind Hannibal, is blushing very noticeably pink.

She and Will are not very _ intimate _friends then, it seems.

Alana coughs, looking away from where her gaze had flickered to Will on the couch and speaking a shade more loudly than before. “I’m arranging for Abigail’s transfer to Port Haven. With that article circulating, it seems prudent to move her as soon as possible.”

“Yes, that seems like the best decision to both keep her safe and maintain her privacy,” Hannibal says, doing nothing whatsoever to alter the level of his own voice but otherwise content to allow Alana to use her work to ignore the profiler-shaped elephant in the room. “She may not, however, thank you for waking in a psychiatric facility.”

Grimacing, Alana admits, “Few would, I think. But the important part is that she _ does _ wake up.”

Hannibal concedes the point with a gracious dip of his head. Should an awakened Abigail object to her lodgings, it will be a good issue to push her away from Alana’s sphere of influence and into Hannibal’s orbit instead - should Hannibal choose to take advantage of it.

Will is still purring, a low and lovely sound that lodges itself in the guts. He must be having sweet dreams; the air inside the hospital room smells more strongly of the cardamom smoke-spice of his omega scent than before - and an answering, feminine beta musk from the woman in front of Hannibal. _ Ah. _

Alana’s pink has begun to stain her throat. “...I should really be on my way.”

“Of course,” Hannibal says graciously, allowing her the hasty retreat in her effort to keep her dignity. He isn’t going to stop her - torn ‘twixt heart and head and hormones, Alana hesitates enough herself, picking up her shoes and other belongings before pausing, half-turned towards the sofa and the man upon it.

The shapes of unspoken words hover in the room like drowsy city birds waking in the predawn, smoke-smudged suggestions of flight still tucked onto ledges and hidden in the guttering.

“I can pass on your farewell,” Hannibal offers, tracking with sharp interest the weight of all the things unsaid.

His proposal is apparently the last push Alana requires, for the woman lets everything go then with one final sigh, gaze rent away from Will to the door. “Thank you, Hannibal. Please do; it feels so rude not to say goodbye. Have a good night?”

“And you.” Hannibal’s _ evening _has already improved in leaps and bounds since he arrived at the hospital, and, if his night continues in the same manner, he will sleep later quite content indeed.

Usually, the departure of such a quick, bright and beautiful companion as Alana Bloom in a location as dull as a comatose patient’s hospital ward would dim affairs, but the fleeing woman has left glittering jewels behind her: the knowledge of her attraction to Will Graham and how it flusters her, scattered suggestions on the kind of relationship Alana and Will have and how it may be manipulated, and the still-sleeping, gently purring, temporarily unconscious form of Will Graham himself.

So at-ease in whatever dreams Alana’s reading and the mingled scents of Alana and Hannibal on the blanket he is draped in have taken him to, the sweet scent of Will’s contentedness is thicker in the room than the cleaning supplies used on the floor or the fresh flowers on the bedside cabinet. And he is sweetly, beautifully oblivious to the brush of Hannibal’s knuckles against his cheek, soft, sleep-warm skin dimpling under the gentle touch like the sweetest tender meat. Hannibal’s teeth ache at the sight, itching for the flush of blood blooming like flowers high in Will’s cheeks. The Firebird has gone to nest and left Sleeping Beauty behind, the prince tired from his grueling adagio with a parade of suitors all vying for his insight.

In the ballet, Désiré wakes Aurora with a kiss. Should Will wake right now, Will’s desire will most likely be making Hannibal suffer the sharp edges of Will’s omega fangs - and, undoubtedly, the even sharper thrust of Will’s temper. Since that would undo much of the good progress that Hannibal has achieved so far in eking out the very frailest strands of Will’s trust, Hannibal removes his hand from Will’s face - though not before tucking back one dark, errant curl of Will’s hair that would impede Hannibal’s view of the dreaming man’s fluttering eyelids from the seat he plans to take at Abigail’s bedside.

Leaving the faintest trace of the scent of his cologne in Will’s hair, possessive, shivering silver over sweet spice, the claim nestled close against the beat of Will’s pulse behind one ear.

Some things are worth the risk of a little suffering, after all.

  


*****

  


They are in the woods around Wolf Trap, and the afternoon is warm. The fallen leaves crinkle under their bare knees as they move together, a constant crackling in orange and yellow that makes Alana laugh into Will’s mouth when he kisses her, laughing himself at the ridiculousness of it all. They’re both naked and wanting, but every time they shift their weights something under them goes _ crack _ or _ crunch _ all dry-soft and susurrous, their amorousness breaking into mirth.

“Like making love in a paper bag,” Alana whispers, nosing at Will’s jaw with a silly grin and shivering at the slide of Will’s palms down the slope of her back. “I feel like a sandwich.”

“These the buns?” Will asks with a wickedly cheerful grope of her backside, tugging Alana forward until the velvet of her nipples rubs his chest, his cock smearing wetness against her belly. Between them there is heat, and the flutter of eyelashes as their throats catch on moans, the world coloured with perfect light the way it goes in Will’s vision when his eyes flood gold.

“You’re the _ ham,_” Alana gasps to him when Will’s hands slide lower, following the curve of her ass and dipping teasingly between her thighs from behind. She’s wet there, slick as Will himself is, pushing back against the touch of his fingers.

Will laughs again at Alana’s words, pressing kisses to her throat. “Honey-roasted?”

_ “Salty._”

“The filling, should you extend that metaphor,” murmurs a familiar voice behind Will with all the dark silk of lingering summer nights, the naked Hannibal Lecter sliding gracefully to his knees there with a grip on Will’s waist and hips to steady him down.

Leaves whisper as they are crushed under the weight of three pairs of calves, and Will sways, shivering at the brush of Lecter’s lips on his shoulder, instinctively leaning into the radiant warmth behind him and offering the beta male his throat with a whine. His eyes slide shut at the answering scrape of teeth to the tendons there, the nails that dig starbursts of white into one hip as Lecter’s other hand burns like a furnace between Will’s abdomen and Alana’s.

Long, talented fingers grasp Will’s cock, twisting at the head to smear the wet slick there and then dragging down firmly to the base. Gripping Will firmly as they guide him up between Alana’s legs, controlling utterly the dizzying slowness of Will sliding inside of her heat. Will’s fingers tighten in a death-grip around Alana’s upper arms at the same pace, his breath shuddering out of him like a drowned man’s last slip beneath the waves.

“Now filling.”

Only weight and voice, Lecter is all the hot darkness on the inside of Will’s eyelids sliced through with the bright snap of teeth.

Will is shockingly aware of the man at his back. His shoulders go tight as his senses scream - _ carnivore, predator, danger _-, but Lecter’s hands on him only bring forth another unrepentant gush of Will’s slick, Will’s eyes fluttering open again, half-dazed, when he bottoms out inside of Alana.

Lecter’s fingers still remain, stroking between Will and Alana and shivering the breath out of both of them, and Alana is beautiful trembling finely because of it, kneading almost catlike at Will’s chest as she leans in for another kiss. She is mindspinningly tight inside, smooth wet walls rippling, dripping, around Will’s cock, and Will is helpless at the sensation, at the lick of Alana’s tongue parting his lips, slipping inside until she coaxes his response.

Lecter withdraws just enough that Will manages to gasp a half-forgotten breath, though his touch on Will’s waist prevents Will from moving forward in anything but shallow, aborted little thrusts. He seems amused as he watches Will try to fuck Alana more deeply regardless, waiting a few moments before he breaks Will and Alana’s liplock with a proprietary hand under Will’s chin, turning Will’s head to kiss him thoroughly as well with devouring teeth and tongue.

When they break apart again, panting, all Will can see is Lecter’s soft plush mouth wet with their shared saliva, and dark, dark eyes that are all black pupil.

“Yes?” Lecter asks him, his thumb pressing into the corner of Will’s mouth until Will’s lips part for him again. Hooking Will like a fish and then pressing inside to test the sharpness of omega fangs against his pad.

“Yes,” Will replies dazedly, teeth touched to flesh with the word - and Lecter must have cut himself in his exploration, for agreement tastes like sweet copper pennies on Will’s tongue.

The flare of approval in Lecter’s gaze makes Will purr, Alana humming in answer as she dips her head over his larynx, mouth pressed wet and open to the source of the sound. Will is still achingly hard inside of her, his thighs warm both back and front with Alana’s slick and his own.

Lecter moves his hands to Will’s hair, smearing bloody saliva over Will’s cheek before fingers weave themselves tight through Will’s curls to keep him still. His knees shove Will’s legs further apart in the dirt from behind, forcing Will to accommodate for the wider breadth of Lecter’s hips. Lecter’s teeth take Will’s nape without biting down, like some great cat holding its cub by the scruff, and, just so, slides inside of him, his thick cock parting Will’s pliant rim with ease.

Will groans when Lecter snaps his hips forwards, filling Will and burying himself to the hilt. The movement drives Will further forward into Alana as well, who gasps and clutches at Lecter over Will’s shoulders, one linked chain of singing nerves, action and reaction. Ha- Lecter is Alana’s brace to her slow, urgent press against Will, and Alana Lecter’s as he slowly withdraws almost entirely from Will’s body - before just as slowly, inexorably, pushing forwards again until his hips lie flush with the curve of Will’s ass.

“_Please_,” Will moans, means _ please, yes, faster, _ but Lecter only begins the torturous cycle all over again.

Alana is the hot wet heaven around Will that he cannot push further into or pull further away from, his hips held firmly in place as Lecter thrusts almost languorously in and out of him, each push smoother than the last and just that little bit closer to driving the wits out of Will’s head.

“Doctor- _ Hannibal,” _ Will reaches back blindly with one hand, nails scrabbling for Hannibal’s thigh to try and get a grip on the other man, urge him on faster. He fails, and gets his hand playfully knocked away, the warm rumble of Hannibal’s laughter stirring his hair, turning liquid in Will’s belly. “Hannibal, _ please._”

Hannibal is still laughing as he kisses Will again and Will snarls at him for it, fangs sharp against Hannibal’s lip until Will can draw the doctor’s tongue between his lips and suck with all the voraciousness Hannibal _ isn’t _using to fuck him. Drool tinged pink with blood drips down their chins, catching in Will’s stubble.

Hannibal and Alana continue to hold Will, use him, as they please, fucking him with their frustratingly, teasingly, languid thrusts. Will, trapped between the two betas, is unable to get the leverage to thrust of his own accord, his pleasure controlled utterly by their pace. He is the conduit between them by which they enjoy each other: the fuck, fucking, fucked. And they- they are against him and around him, lips dragging against lips as they meet on Will’s shoulder, Alana’s fingers caressing Hannibal’s biceps, Hannibal’s fingers snagging in Alana’s long dark hair. Driven half to delight, half despair, Will moans, twists and writhes, between them and snares whichever hot mouth will kiss him, his nails dragging red lines over both betas’ bodies alike.

Eventually, Hannibal seems to tire of the torture of the desperate omega in his arms, communicating something to Alana with his eyes over Will’s head. “Alana, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Alana might not mind as she obliges by moving back and away from Will, letting him slip out from inside of her, but _ Will _certainly does. Will almost sobs, his cock still wet with her slick and cooling rapidly, bereft of her warmth. When Hannibal pulls out of Will as well, leaving only a deep, hollow ache behind him, Will doesn’t know which of them to reach for, a hand spread entreatingly in each direction.

Alana kisses the centre of a palm as an apology for him to wrap his fingers around as Hannibal rearranges them all, Alana on her back in the soft bed of warm dry dirt, twigs and leaves, with Will bent over her on his elbows and knees. Her feet are planted in the earth so the cradle of her pelvis is lifted to Will’s, Will’s own hips raised just enough for Hannibal to mount him.

Will kisses Alana in return when he pushes back inside of her, her walls drawing him in closer, deeper, as her hands flatten and curl around Will’s nape. Hannibal nudges her fingers out of the way to bare Will’s so-far-unblemished neck to his teeth again, worrying the sensitive flesh there to bruising but never breaking skin. The answering flood of endorphins and new position lets him spread Will’s legs even wider than before, spearing Will open with the push of his cock and a possessive snarl of triumph.

The teasing appears to be over. Will moans as Hannibal finally fucks him with intent, ducking his head to mouth wetly over Alana’s throat, breathing in raggedly the scent of sweet violets and salt-autumn forest on her skin. He can do little else; Hannibal seems determined to render Will incoherent, his pace nigh-punishing as he litters Will’s back and throat and shoulders with the marks of his teeth and savage sucking bruises.

Alana’s nails bite into his ribs and sides as Will thrusts into her, driven forward by Hannibal’s force, her heart thundering against his, the groans of her pleasure buzzing low in her throat. Will laves over them with his tongue, blind against the secret haven of her collarbone, his fangs scraping against her scent glands in both instinctual provocation and hope. Posed as they are, his mouth must move for him where his fingers cannot, Will’s hands supporting his weight as they clench in the sun-warm earth either side of Alana’s head, tree roots cradling them both.

Dry leaves and twigs crack and are crushed in his fists, the top layer scraped away from the woods’ undergrowth by his nails - revealing fine, shivering lines of yellow and white crawling through the earth beneath, embedded in the earth and seeming to pulse in Will’s vision with the slow, sonorous beat of a giant’s heart. _ Fungi. _

Will gasps when, as if in response to his attention, the nearest clump of mycelium begins spreading rapidly in his direction, a small bloom of yellow that just touches the knuckle of his right little finger before Will snatches his hand away.

The teeth in Hannibal’s smile press to Will’s neck, leonine. “Is this not what you’re searching for?”

“What?” Will asks him in confusion, trying to turn his head to stare at the other man, but is immediately distracted by further pale threads of mycelium emerging from under the leaves beside them, its growth unnaturally, alarmingly, fast.

Unnerved, Will tries to sweep away some of the top layer of ground cover with the side of his palms, hoping that disturbing the deadwood will also break some of the strands of hyphae creeping towards them. He is successful, but his actions only reveal _ more _fungi that had been lurking out of sight, a gigantic beating web of mycelium on the forest floor with Will, Hannibal and Alana laying at its heart. 

The mycelium knows the three of them are there: it responds to Will’s efforts to stall its progress by growing around his discouraging fingers, blooming beyond reach of his arms into rings and rings of fungal caps and protrusions. They breathe as all living things do, expelling fine clouds of delicate spores that gleam like golden specks of dust in the sunlight.

Will tries to speak, to warn his lovers, as the mycelial network advances over the ground towards the three of them and the dancing breeze carries fungal spores their way, but neither Alana nor Hannibal seems to care. In fact, they seem more vexed that Will, in his distraction, has offered resistance between them, Hannibal’s teeth on Will’s neck turning reproachfully sharper until Will goes lax under him, Will’s muscles softening instinctively and sending him tumbling down into the demanding grasp of Alana’s arms.

She kisses him firmly, swallowing Will’s words until Hannibal eliminates them entirely with the devastating angle of his thrusts. Stars light up at the back of Will’s eyeballs even as spores speckle Alana’s skin in his vision like the stars of a distant galaxy, the floating cells breathed in between their panting mouths. Will can feel them blooming in his lungs as he ruts forwards into Alana, her slick tightness constricting around him so that he is still moaning as he is dragged back onto the unyielding thrust of Hannibal’s cock.

Will can feel every inch of Hannibal’s length as it slides inside of him, exacerbated when Hannibal’s palm spreads possessively across his belly, pulling Will back into him again and again. His hand sits broad and hot above Will’s pelvis, increasing the pressure inside of Will until it feels as though Hannibal can fuck his own hand through Will’s body, his cock striking every sensitive place inside of Will with ruthless precision.

Whisper-thin white filaments of fungi have woven themselves through the halo of Alana’s hair on the forest floor, pale threads lovingly braiding with the darker strands of hair. Alana has breathed in the spores as well as Will, the gold carried deep into her lungs and onwards into her blood. Veins and arteries rush the insidious fungal light through the rest of Alana’s body; when Will strokes fingers along her skin he can see the mycelial network pulse gold through the layers of her flesh.

The bioluminescence is widespread but still leaves patches of dimness on Alana’s skin like islands in a delta or a cheetah’s rosettes. Alana is brightest where Will touches her and so her mouth glows likes the pole star, guiding him to her for kiss after searching kiss even as the frills of oyster mushrooms erupt from the thin flesh around her eyes, behind her ears, tiny mushroom caps sliding up through the veins at her wrists. The webbing between her fingers grows delicate ribs that spawn fungal gills, ticklish as they smooth over Will’s arm.

Will laughs at the tickling sensation even as his mind rebels, looking down at his arm to see that he is the same as Alana, alight with stars from the fungus spores. They feel thick in his throat, in his lungs, heavy as they bloom ever further in his chest, replacing the rise and fall of each of his ribs under Alana’s questing fingertips with curves of spongy fungus. And yet still, _ still, _Will is helplessly, hopelessly, half-lost in arousal, the woods around him beating in time with the mycelial network, with the rapid pulse of his heart. The gold of his own irises has filled the world and left his vision hazy, and Hannibal’s deep hard thrusts are punching gasps out of Will’s throat before his infested lungs can take in any real air.

When Hannibal nuzzles into Will’s sweaty hair from behind, Will lifts his head to try and warn him, beg for help, beg for _ something, _but ends up merely leaning back and rubbing his cheek against Hannibal’s as Hannibal rumbles in pleasure. Hannibal’s hips snap forward as Will spreads his scent possessively over the other man’s skin, Will twisting just enough afterwards so that he can smear a kiss over the mix of their oils on Hannibal’s ridiculous jawline, licking the mingled taste off his lips until his whole mouth tingles with spice and fungal sap.

Hannibal is aglow as well, a web of mycelium coming up over his shoulders from behind like the cape of a king, and the blacks of his eyes have bloomed wide and dark like the psychedelic-addicts Will recalls seeing on the streets in his days as a cop. Will can see the gold of his own irises reflected back at him in the yawning chasms that are Hannibal’s pupils, the pale spongy mould blossoming across one of his own cheeks, and he wants - he wants -

“Is this not what you’re searching for?” Hannibal asks him again, and Will can only whimper.

Beneath them both, Alana moans and shudders as she comes. The sudden rippling tightness around Will’s cock makes him hiss, and he ruts forward into Alana harshly, into the burst of her wet heat, lowering both himself and her to the ground where the ever-tightening web of mycelium immediately sets about fully covering them both.

Strands weave themselves tightly around Will’s limbs and attach themselves to his skin with infestimally tiny, sucking tendrils, burrowing into organic material no matter whether it is wood, earth or human flesh. Will’s hands digging into the living earth become entwined with Alana’s body: he can feel the beat of her heart against his own as his breath shudders out of his lungs, and he can feel Hannibal’s pulse against his spine, throbbing in Will’s belly where Hannibal will now be forever buried inside of him. The three of them have been woven together and made a breathing part of the network, part of one great web that stretches out through the woods, under the earth, reaching and growing and so large Will’s mind blurs trying to fathom it.

Endless.

_ Endless. _

_ “See?” _whispers the pulse in Will’s ears, murmured in his voice, in Alana’s in Hannibal’s.

The mycelial network smiles sweetly, kindly, and it uses their mouths to do so, uses Will’s throat to contently purr, even as their flesh slowly melts together, grows mould, their eyes filming over.

_ “See?” _

“'Mankind',” says Hannibal, “'have a little corrupted nature, for they were not born wolves, and they have become wolves; God has given them neither cannon of four-and-twenty pounders, nor bayonets; and yet they have made cannon and bayonets to destroy one another.’”

Will blinks, blinks again, and -

Somewhere between heartbeats, Wolf Trap disappears and Will is -

Will is in the hospital. Right. Abigail’s ward. Lying on the sofa, blanket over his shoulders. And Hannibal is sitting beside Abigail’s bed, reading aloud from a book in one hand. The pedagogical Christ Pantokrator.

A sense of_ dejá vu _ is unavoidable, but there are certain, subtle but crucial, elements that are different to this scene from the one Will last remembers. He has been… dreaming. Dreaming. And the world has changed.

“‘Annib’l?”

“Will.” Hannibal looks up from his book, his lips curving upwards in a mild greeting that Will can almost - still - feel pressed with teeth against his neck. Oh fuck. (_Dreaming._) “Good evening.”

Still trying to reorient himself, Will pushes himself up with one arm and manages a muzzy, “S’it?” He feels flushed. Too hot.

“It is evening,” Hannibal grants him, so Will hasn’t been asleep for too long, “and I suppose if it is a good one or not depends entirely on your personal perspective.”

Hannibal- Will’s thoughts screech to a halt. When had he started thinking of Dr. Lecter as _ Hannibal? _ It’s bad enough the beta has invaded his dreams in such a carnal manner without Will granting Lecter more ground in his waking life as well. Laxity with a man as troublesome as Lecter only invites more laxity, and the more impersonal Will can keep things between the two of them, the simpler his life should be. A clear border between his private life and his professional one should give Will easy rules to live by for both (_stop thinking about Dr. Lecter’s dick _ being chief among them), and the first and most important place Will needs to firmly draw the line is in the sanctity of his own head. A shield wall for his thoughts, for his self, rebuffing and redirecting the foreign winds that would disturb the waters of his mental stream.

(_No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love. _

Will shivers.

Some winds circle around.)

Will mulls over his personal perspective of the day as he notes the minute changes that have been made to Abigail’s room whilst he slept: the new flowers, the change in light, and, of course, Dr. Lecter, glaringly unsubtle in a rich charcoal-coloured three-piece over a burnt red shirt. (Will doesn’t even want to glance at Lecter’s tie. Even at this distance and squinting, it looks almost offensively stripey.)

“...Alana?” Will delicately inquires, because it is better than saying _ if you’re trying to be sartorially noticeable, doctor, you might as well spare everyone's eyesight and take the clothes _off.

Lecter smiles like the goddamn sphinx, each and every one of his expressions a masterwork of minute details that Will actually has to _ work _to interpret. It would be refreshing, if it weren’t as equally as annoying at times. “She had to leave, I’m afraid. She would have said goodbye, but we were quite loath to wake you.”

“Ah.” Will sits up carefully in his seat, grateful - once more - for the blanket Alana had given him when the shift causes his cock to rub firmly against the already straining fabric of his trousers, pointedly reminding Will of its existence with a petulant _ throb. _ A lingering physical reminder of his dreams, there is no polite way for Will to adjust his hard-on or the familiar _ stick _ of his underwear with Lecter watching him - not that Will would feel comfortable adjusting himself in the presence of a teenage girl anyway, even if she _ is _ in a coma.

Hopefully, the strong scent of the hospital’s cleaning supplies covers up the scent of Will’s arousal. Hopefully.

_ Please, _ Will thinks blindly out at the universe, _ don’t let Lecter notice. _ Will deserves that small mercy at least.

He nods his head stiffly towards Lecter’s book, hoping to redirect some of the beta’s focus as, under the blanket, Will tugs at one of the legs of his trousers, trying to create a little more room at the crotch. “That’s not O’Connor.”

“Alana did mention that she had had a conscious audience for her reading at one point,” Lecter muses, one thumb tapping thoughtfully on the open pages before him. “No, this is Fleming’s translation of _ Candide. _”

“You’re reading philosophy to a teenager?”

“Satire.”

“Philosophical satire.” And rather depressing philosophical satire at that. Will makes a face. “I suppose we should be grateful you chose a translation. Knowing you, you probably also have a copy in its original French.”

Lecter’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he really smiles, the ass dipping his head in what he probably thinks is a charming acknowledgement of being called out: _ guilty as charged. _

So, the doctor has French in his repertoire along with Italian. Though the conversation is naturally leading him there, Will pointedly refrains from asking just how many languages Lecter actually knows - if only because the particular cant of Lecter’s head as he regards Will suggests that Lecter _ wants _to be asked.

Eyes fixed on Lecter’s cheekbones, Will stares him down instead. Stubbornly.

At Will’s blatant silence, Lecter’s eyes crinkle further and his lips twitch: a response that would be, on nearly anyone else, an obviously stifled laugh. “In Voltaire's fingers, Anatole France once said, the pen runs and laughs.”

“I think I’ve had enough of laughing pens today, thanks,” Will says, and lets his somber gaze drift over to Abigail. His arousal is dying ever more rapidly by the second (thank _ God_). “I don’t like the direction of their jokes.”

“You speak of the _ Birds of a Feather _article,” Lecter says, and hums quietly when Will’s head jerks in a nod. “If it is of any consolation, and if our dear friend, Dr. Bloom, has anything to say about it, the FBI will be making sure that the pen behind that piece will not be laughing for long.”

“Some of the nurses were gossiping about it when I first arrived.”

Again, the expression on Lecter’s face shifts microscopically, a slight tic Will notes out of the corner of his eye that radiates - for this man - displeasure.

(_Good, _ something in Will thinks selfishly, savagely, like recognising like and taking satisfaction in having its feelings vindicated by another feeling the same. _ Good._)

“Anyone I might perhaps know?” Lecter inquires lightly, closing his copy of _ Candide _so he can put it away in the bag by the foot of his seat.

“Just some mouth on legs called Evie,” Will says dismissively. “I thought your old stomping grounds were in the Emergency Room?” A conversation around Lecter’s history in surgery had been almost impossible to avoid after the beta had so expertly saved Abigail’s life.

Will had not been incorrect; Lecter’s head dips again to confirm the truth of his recollection: _ just so. _

“I like to believe I held some influence throughout the hospital’s many departments in my time here,” Lecter says without an ounce of shame (which, _ annoyingly, _probably means Lecter’s reputation is a good one in the hospital and thoroughly deserved), “and I have a good memory for people.” He pauses, sitting upright again to ponder before adding, “I cannot, however, recall a nurse named Evie.”

“Perhaps she’s new,” Will suggests.

“Or perhaps entirely unremarkable.”

“Aside from spreading malicious gossip.” Will sighs, lifting one hand to tug the fingers through his sleep-tangled curls, letting his nails scrape back over his scalp and down over the itch of his nape. His neck still feels hot under his shirt’s loose collar, tingling with the memory of bites that never happened. “I told her to find another ward to work on else I’d report her.”

Hopefully the woman had listened, because tracking down her superiors to follow through on his threat just sounds _ exhausting _ to Will at the moment.

“That was quite charitable of you,” Lecter says neutrally, much more in control of his temper than Will had managed to be earlier in the day, “given the circumstances.”

“Last thing Abigail needs is a nurse with a serious vendetta against her because I got them in trouble at work.” Will gestures vaguely, not lifting the heel of his palm from his neck.

Lecter hums again. “I assume Dr. Bloom informed you that Abigail will not be remaining in this hospital for much longer?”

“She’s going to Port Haven. Yeah, I know.”

Hopefully Abigail will forgive them for making all these decisions for her when she finally wakes up. Or at least understand why they were made.

It’s important to Will. That she understands.

He grimaces and turns away from Abigail’s sleeping figure, changing the subject before Lecter can delve too deeply once more into the topic of homicidally-acquired daughters. “The FBI still has you bound with an NDA?”

“It does,” Lecter confirms, the faintest _ edge _ in his tone suggesting that he hopes Will isn’t proposing that _ he _ might be the FBI source for the _ Birds of a Feather _piece.

That hadn’t been Will’s intention. Lecter is far too in control of both himself and his words to let something accidentally slip to a journalist, and releasing such private information deliberately would be beneath him as well, especially when any whisper of that kind of scandal associated with his name could be career suicide. Doctor-patient confidentiality is absolute, but it is even more absolute than usual when one’s patients rank amongst the rich and infamous of Baltimore society and its surrounding area.

“What do you know about mushrooms?” Will asks instead, and has the pleasure of catching Hannibal Lecter momentarily off-guard.

The beta blinks. Once. “Medicinally, gastronomically, biologically, or ecologically?”

“That’s a lot of _ ally_s.” And Lecter can probably lecture on each one.

Will discreetly tugs at his trousers again. His erection has gone down (mostly), but his underwear is still clinging a little damply to the tender head of his cock and between the cheeks of his ass.

“He wasn’t picking them,” Will elaborates, because he’s not all too sure which of the categories Lecter listed to him would be of most interest to the killer that has infected his dreams. The Lecter in the false Wolf Trap had understood, caught up in the mycelium network with Will and Alana and completely unafraid, but Will had wanted release from him rather than revelations. “To eat, or anything else.”

‘“He’?” The Lecter of the conscious world isn’t slow on the uptake either, the keen mind behind his dark eyes rapidly cycling through several references before it alights on the one that Will is most likely alluding to. “Ah, the bodies in the woods.”

“Avid reader of _Tattlecrime_, doctor?”

“It has its uses,” says Lecter. Then: “You were asked to consult?”

Doesn’t ask: without the Psych Eval?

“I looked over the case file. An unofficial favour for a friend.” Will deliberately ignores Lecter’s knowing look; yeah, there are a lot of those unofficial favours going ‘round. “The unsub was cultivating mushrooms using his victims as fertiliser, but not for harvest. He kept his victims alive by feeding them intravenously, but only as long as it took for the fungus to grow.”

“The fungal growth was the desired result?”

Frustration bubbling over at the missing pieces to the puzzle, Will rises abruptly to his feet, taking his blanket with him as he paces over to the little ward’s window. This isn’t even his puzzle to _ solve, _though a few flashes of the picture on the jigsaw box have burrowed their way into his subconscious regardless.

“I’m sure of it. But he just left his crop there. It seems pretty wasteful for someone who took the time to bury his victims in a straight line.” Will’s hand slices flat through the sunset light, dividing the world for a moment between red-gold and shadow. “Pretty maids all in a row.”

“A very contrary gardener.” Lecter leans back in his chair to think, hands folding serenely over his stomach. Will shudders - where the light catches the tiny hairs on the back of Lecter’s wrists, it seems like the beta might have stars beneath his skin. “There are more species of fungi, bacteria and protozoa in a single scoop of soil than there are species of plants and vertebrate animals in the whole of North America. And yet, animals are more closely related to fungi than any other kingdom - more than 600 million years ago we shared a common ancestry. The branch of fungi that eventually led to animals evolved to capture nutrients by surrounding their food with cellular sacs: essentially primitive stomachs.”

“We had stomachs before we had souls.” Abigail’s gentians have been shifted to the windowsill, the older bouquet moved to give way to the new. Will reaches out thoughtlessly, brushing light fingertips over bruised, tired petals. “Says something.”

“Hunger is and always has been a primary drive throughout nature.”

“And maybe fungi developed a more... efficient means of dealing with it than we have as a species.” Will catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and glances over - Lecter, coming over to join Will at the window, step by openly curious step. “You said it yourself: fungi predates us, and it’ll probably survive us as well, devouring that which kills us and feeding that which forgets us.”

“Rising from the rot,” Lecter muses, “consumed by that which will also one day rot.”

“An ancient cycle of growth and decay,” Will says, and drops his eyes to the other man’s collar when Lecter looks at him directly.

(The stripey tie is worse than Will had originally thought.)

“Fungi are the grand recyclers of our planet,” Lecter says, hands tucked almost casually into his trouser pockets like he’d pry open Will’s skull with his nails if his hands aren’t otherwise occupied, “the interface organisms between life and death.”

Transgressive in Will’s mind’s eye, three bodies intertwined in the greater body of the woods, neither fully flesh nor fungi. He frowns, and Lecter takes it as prompt to go on.

“Mushrooms, as you asked about them, are merely the visible above-ground protrusions of sometimes vast underground networks of mycelium. They’re quite remarkable: mycelial nets have been shown to share the same architecture as that of astrocytic brain cells, both networks creating neurological pathways for distributing information as efficiently as possible.”

Will parses that. And then drops his hand from the gentians. “...Mushrooms are sentient.”

“Mycelial networks are arguably sentient. Of which mushrooms are a miniscule but visible part.” Lecter’s voice turns thoughtful. “An intricate web of connections.”

Crossing all boundaries, spanning for miles.

_ (“Is this not what you’re searching for?”) _

Will considers that, looking away from Lecter entirely and out the window, noting but not particularly seeing all the people going about their business on the hospital paths below. “Maybe the unsub admires their ability to connect the way human minds can't.”

Leaning closer, Lecter follows the direction of his gaze - perhaps unconsciously, perhaps out of curiosity at what has caught Will’s interest, or perhaps simply trying to build rapport. He really can work this particular game as well as Will can. Better, maybe. “Yours can.”

Of _ course _Lecter would bring that up. Will starts laughing, and Lecter’s reflection begins to smile along with him in the window-glass. “Not physically.” Lecter straightens again, a quick sliver of dark tongue smoothing out over his lips as he rests back on his heels. “Not with reciprocity.”

Never with reciprocity. Will’s smile fades.

“Is that what your gardener is looking for?” Lecter asks. The jackpot question. “Some sort of connection?”

The space between thoughts, between minds, between _ people, _filled at last. Bridged by mycelium.

Will should call Beverly. He strides over to the couch to grab his cell in his jacket pocket - only for the blanket he’d forgotten he still had half-draped around his front and shoulders to finally give up the ghost and slide forwards and away from him when he bends over.

Will can feel himself turn pink. He’d forgotten about the blanket. He’d forgotten about it and been wearing it _ all this time, _ carrying it around like a child’s comfort blanket, his nose buried in the fabric that smells like -

Will frowns slightly, picking up the blanket from where it had fallen on the floor. The blanket doesn’t just smell like the hospital, like Will, and like Alana any more.

In fact - and Will turns his face into his shirt collar for a moment, just to sniff and check - _ Will _doesn’t just smell like himself, the hospital, and Alana any more. Alana’s violet scent has almost entirely faded away, overpowered by a fresher burst of dry spice.

Cell forgotten, Will turns back sharply to Lecter. “Why do I smell like you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lecter has the temerity to look surprised.

“I didn’t notice it until I moved away from you,” Will says, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck all prickling with disquiet, “but I _ smell _ like you. Your cologne’s pretty distinct.”

Nobody else Will knows smells anything like Lecter. (Nobody else Will knows could probably afford Lecter’s mix of body products and cologne.)

When had Lecter gotten close enough to _ scent-mark _him? When Will had been asleep?

“I’ve been told it can be rather austere,” says Lecter, as if the issue here is his favoured blend of fragrance notes.

“Maybe,” says Will, and smiles with bared fangs. “You have to be _ close _ to smell the musk.”

Something in the rigidity of Will’s posture finally gets Lecter a clue, his expression softening with contrite solicitousness as the awareness of his trespass sinks in. “It seems I shall have to find a product with less sillage. Your blanket fell off a few times whilst you were sleeping, Will. My scent probably rubbed off on you when I placed it back around you.”

“Oh.” Will twists the blanket between his fingers, his anger at being marked without permission or knowledge dissipating into embarrassment.

Just _ another _ colleague tucking him in.

“I can understand how it must be disconcerting -”

“No,” says Will hastily, before Lecter can apologise for _ being kind. _ “Sorry. Uh- I’m just- It’s unusual. Normally, I just smell of myself and dogs.” He ducks his chin, self-conscious. “Thank you for your care.”

“It was my pleasure,” Lecter says with perfect courtesy, gentling the formality with a small smile. “Though might I suggest you may sleep better in your own bed, rather than on a hospital couch? Speaking as a former frequent occupier of those selfsame couches during shift-breaks from the ER, I know they can do terrible things to one’s back.”

Judging by the light, it_ is_ about time for Will to leave if he wants to get home before his dogs start doing their desperate need-to-pee dance at the door. Change his underwear before he has to scrape it off his ass. “No flexible days in your youth, huh?”

“You gaze upon the lumpy kin of their killer.” Lecter’s eyes really do gleam when he’s amused, Will catching them for a brief moment as he folds the hospital blanket and they both gather their things. It’s still insufferably attractive. “Come, we should get a coffee to wake ourselves up before our drives home.”

Will says goodbye to Abigail for the day with one last long look, following Lecter’s strides out of the room and towards the elevators. They fall easily in pace, the two of them, Will not having to either speed up or slow down from his usual walking speed to accommodate the man beside him.

“You said dogs,” Lecter asks offhand, “plural?”

“Very plural,” Will confirms. “I have seven. All former strays.”

To his credit, Dr. Lecter looks only a little surprised, rather than judgemental. Will’s gotten pretty used to at least _ some _ kind of judgement when he tells people about the size of his pack, especially if they already know he’s not a shelter-owner or rehabilitator by trade.

“It speaks well of you to be able to look after so many,” Lecter says, a neat little compliment presented like it’s only a statement of fact.

“The original plan was to take them in, get them rehabilitated and then find them suitable homes elsewhere, but…” Will shrugs.

Despite the earlier compliment, he’s expecting a comment from Lecter about how omegas with smaller families or who live alone are often known for surrounding themselves with animals. _ Developing and displaying their nurturing instinct_, to quote the academics. And the assholes.

“They’re family,” Lecter murmurs instead, and Will’s eyes fly wide as he turns his head to look at the beta. Struck.

“Yes,” says Will, and has to swallow around the sudden hoarseness of his throat. “Yes, that’s- they’re family.”

The hospital food court is quieter at this time of evening. Lecter buys their coffees, waylaying Will’s protests by, firstly, getting Will’s order right without any input from the omega, and then pronouncing that the drinks had been his idea in the first place. Grudgingly, Will concedes the battle, and takes the opportunity to shoot a text off to Beverly to see if the woman is still at work. 

“Besides,” Lecter says when he returns, offering Will one of the insulated cups in his hands with a wicked little twist to his mouth that suggests nothing good, “I believe the perks must at least _ occasionally _ be provided for one to categorise a relationship as friends-with-benefits.”

Heat rushes to Will’s cheeks, nothing to do with his coffee, but his response remains dry. “That would require us to be friends.”

He’s not even sure himself how he means that. Lecter looks amused anyway.

Outside, the cawing of the crows greets them as the birds finish their business for the day and return to their nests. Dark feathered shadows flap between the paths, shrubs and trees surrounding the hospital, occasional blurs overhead that Will squints at to see against the twilight sky.

Lecter’s tread is quiet beside him, and his voice, when the doctor speaks, contemplative.

“The crows above the forest call;  
Tomorrow they may form and go.  
O hushed October morning mild,  
Begin the hours of this day slow.”

Will looks at him askance, trying to put a finger on the sudden feeling that wells up inside of him when the line of Lecter’s profile is distractingly damn near statuesque. “You know Frost?”

“We are all of us a little guilty at times of wishing a moment could last forever,” is Lecter’s oblique reply, before turning the question back on Will. _ Psychiatrists. _ “You’re a fan of his work?”

“I appreciate his sincerity. He uses all the old, classic metres, but writes like he’s just having a conversation with the reader. Just some regular guy, not too high-brow. Says with perfect simplicity exactly what he sees, and makes it mean more by the arrangement. It’s refreshing.”

Lecter muses over that for a moment or two. “Yes, I can see it might be. Do you prefer modern poetry in general?”

“Am I scandalising the Voltaire?” Will teases, taking a sip of his coffee and tipping his head towards Lecter’s bag. _ Candide, _really. “I’ll read anything, doesn’t matter what.”

“Yes,” says Lecter. Then: “You’re rather more intelligent and well-read than you care for people to assume you are.”

The sweetness of the sugar in his drink quickly fades from Will’s tongue, and his mouth twists down into something bitter and warning. He’s not in the mood for this after a long day. “Careful, Dr. Lecter; you’re veering dangerously close to psychoanalysis again.” Will’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and, still rather acrimonious about the turn the conversation has taken, he fishes it out, adding, “I’m not accountable for other people’s assumptions.”

“Indeed you are not, but you must admit, the way you choose to present yourself veers towards being deliberately misleading.” Will raises his eyebrows, all but challenging the doctor to elaborate on that, but Lecter gracefully backs down, turning his gaze to the watch on his wrist rather than to the dig of omega claws into Will’s coffee cup, to the mutinous set of Will’s jaw.

“I’m afraid I must take my leave of you now.”

“Oh, _ must _ you?” Will inquires, _ sotto voce. _

“Alas,” says Lecter, as though Will cannot _ hear _ the amusement so richly colouring his voice, “I have a prior engagement. But I thank you for the fascinating conversation, as always. _ À bientôt, _ Will_._"

Will doesn’t say goodbye - but he doesn’t say _ fuck off _ either, raising a single hand in a farewell gesture over his shoulder as he turns and heads in the direction of his car, uncaring if Lecter sees it or is ready to leave himself.

The buzzing had been a text from Beverly: _ yes, _she is still stuck at Quantico. Jack is riding the team’s asses hard since the latest victim may still be alive. Alive and slowly dying of diabetic ketoacidosis.

Will calls her instead of texting back, following up her greeting with a brisk, “Any luck with your gardener?”

“You better be calling to be useful, Graham,” says Beverly, which answers the question even before she sighs: “No, no luck with finding Stammets _ or _our vic. Priority on the vic: one Gretchen Speck, beta female, aged 30. Diabetic. We got the plates for Stammets’ new vehicle but no hits, and the dog teams are still out searching in Elk Neck State Park.”

“His new garden might not even be there,” Will says.

“That’s been considered already, but the higher-ups deemed it worth a try. Do you know how many state parks and wild areas there are around Maryland?” Beverly demands. “Not to mention other forested land. If you don’t already know, you don’t _ wanna _know. Jimmy’s still drawing up the list.”

Will couldn’t name the exact acreage, but just thinking about trying to trawl through the forested land north-east and west of Baltimore by foot gives him a headache. “Stammets won’t run too far from what he knows, where he knows the earth and what’s under it. He’s- he’s looking for _ connection, _trying to help people connect.”

“By _ killing _ them?”

“The deaths are incidental- I’m not even sure he sees the life departing the shells of his victims _ as _death. He was encouraging the mushrooms to grow because the victims, their lives… these people live on in the fungi that grows on their bodies. In the more expansive mycelial network. Their thoughts, their feelings, the connections between them all, buried and breathing as one.”

On the other end of the line, Beverly is silent for long enough Will worries his remarks have creeped her out enough she’s gone for psychiatric back-up.

“Bev?” Will asks, just in case.

“Here,” she says promptly, and Will’s shoulders droop with relief. “Sorry - just writing a note. I am never going to be able to eat my boyfriend’s mushroom risotto ever again.”

“Good risotto?”

“One of his specialties.” Beverly sighs again, and, in the background, Will hears Zeller let out a curse, Price murmuring something afterwards. More destruction in the lab. “Your _ Tattlecrime _ lead bore fruit, by the way.”

Will reaches his volvo at last, sliding inside after unlocking it and depositing his coffee in the cupholder. “You found the leak already?”

“No, Jack’s gonna press Lounds about that later. We found _ Tattlecrime. _At Stammets’ workstation. Seems he’d been reading the blog just before he went home.”

“It tipped him off.” Will frowns, leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t envy the _ Tattlecrime _ writer who is going to be face to face with Jack’s ire rather soon, but the woman absolutely deserves it. She had exposed a victim to the public’s wrath _ and _fucked up an ongoing investigation, all in the same day.

...God, with that leak, _ Tattlecrime _probably has more information about the FBI losing Stammets than Will does.

“Bev, he’s going to keep trying to- to _ help _people connect unless he’s stopped.”

“We’ll get him,” Beverly promises, reassuring in her absolute confidence. “Jimmy’s got a long list of paperwork he wants to crush him to death with.”

“_Peine forte et dure _is a little too Salem these days, isn’t it?” Will asks, making a mental note about Price’s apparent fondness for medieval torture methods. “Though they blame the fungi for that one now too.”

“If you tell me Stammets thinks he’s a witch now as well- _ what?” _Beverly asks when Will makes an amused noise into his phone. “You think anyone’s gonna be surprised if this case gets even weirder? We have a serial killer who’s uploading diabetics to a mushroom cloud because he has no friends.”

There’s a pause, and, in the silence, Will hears Beverly and himself reach the same thought at the same time. He lets Beverly have it, slotting the new query into the larger puzzle of the case in his mind.

“...Will,” she asks slowly, clearly turning her words over herself, “who is Stammets trying so hard to be friends with?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Rissole_: (from French _rissoler_, ‘to redden/to make red’) a small savoury patty enclosed in pastry, or rolled in breadcrumbs, usually baked or deep fried. Can be served as an entrée, main course or side dish.
> 
> Alana (canonically!) reads _A Good Man is Hard to Find_ to Abigail in the hospital, which is a questionable decision for all the reasons Hannibal points out in this. Hannibal reads _Candide_, because Hannibal is exactly the sort of person who’d take a ‘cheerful’ philosophical satire criticising the belief in a benevolent God (amongst other things) to read to someone whose serial killer father tried to kill them. It’s just as questionable (see: terrible) a choice as Alana’s, and yes, _Hannibal knows this_. However, it does, arguably, have a better take-away for the ending. (God’s one thing, but you gotta fix your own shit.)
> 
> The ‘rose galaxy’: actually a pair of interacting galaxies, that form [the shape of a rose](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arp_273).
> 
> The ‘gruelling adagio’ Hannibal decides to make a pretentious metaphor about is the ‘Rose Adagio’ from the ballet of _The Sleeping Beauty_, wherein Princess Aurora dances with four suitors in turn (who each present her with a rose). It’s known in ballet for being very tough on the ballerina dancing Aurora, as it’s a long dance where the ballerina spends a lot of time _en pointe_ \- and at one point must remain rigidly _en pointe_ as a suitor gently turns her on the spot, before letting go of her partner’s hand, still balanced, and taking the hand of the next suitor to do the same thing. All whilst making it look like her own effortless decision. (There are some good videos online.)
> 
> Mushroom/fungi/mycelium chatter is largely taken from and inspired by the work of the mycologist Paul Stamets (the real life inspiration for Eldon Stammets in the show, as well as a scientist in _Star Trek: Discovery_), in particular his book, _Mycelium Running: How Mushrooms Can Help Save the World_. Paul Stamets also has some published works on psilocybin mushrooms, and growing mushrooms for gourmet and medicinal purposes that I feel Hannibal would be interested in.
> 
> Hannibal quotes an excerpt from Robert Frost’s [_October_](https://poets.org/poem/october) to Will outside the hospital. It can be assumed that Will likes Frost’s poetry: he has a copy of some of Frost’s work on his bookshelves at home, and he’s particularly quick to correct Zeller in _Coquilles_ when Zeller mistakes Beverly’s quoting of Jim Morrison/The Doors for Frost. (More eagle-eyed fannibals than me have more to say about Will’s bookshelves [here](https://will-grahams-straitjacket.tumblr.com/post/108853643866/will-grahams-bookshelf).)
> 
> _Peine forte et dure_ (‘forceful and hard punishment’) was a method of torture wherein defendants who refused to enter a plea in a common law court were slowly starved and crushed to death until they entered a plea (guilty/not guilty) or died. The only person who died in American history due to _peine forte et dure_ was Giles Corey, who was pressed to death in 1692 during the Salem witch trials for refusing to enter a plea after being accused of witchcraft.
> 
> That's all for now. Stay safe, all, be kind, and wash your hands.


	5. confit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will makes several bad decisions, least of all talking himself into being kidnapped. The Mushroom Gardener case comes to a close.

Morning the next day starts with a misty drizzle. Rather than bounding off into the fields, Will’s pack mills restlessly around his legs when he opens the front door for them, and he has to click his tongue to even get them out onto the porch. Once reluctantly outside, the damp of the air convinces them all that if they _ must _be subjected to this weather, they might as well venture beyond the porch’s cover and relieve their aching bladders, all of the dogs conducting their business as quickly as possible and returning to press pathetically against Will’s calves, begging for warmth.

Will gives them each a quick towel-dry and wipes their paws before letting them back into the house one by one, shivering himself by the time he’s finished and can make his way inside for a hot - _ hot - _cup of coffee.

Somewhere between breakfast - toast -, getting dressed and getting into his car, the sun decides to show for the day, late to wake and resentful about it. The glare of it catches Will right in the eyes just as he pauses at a stoplight, the bright sunbeam arrowing straight and sharp to the back of his skull. He flinches and yanks his sun-visor down but the damage has already been done - a headache slams itself behind Will’s eyes quicker than the stoplight turning green. It’s painful enough he has to pull over a little while later, before he’s even out of Wolf Trap proper, and shake himself out some aspirin to swallow dry. The bitter chalky taste is yet _ another _reminder that Will really ought to keep a bottle of water in his car, something to wet his mouth and wash pills down with rather than more of the crap Quantico likes to pass off as coffee - which, when consumed in large enough quantities, gives Will the jitters of the tired, overworked and over-caffeinated by the end of the day.

The breakfast trays are still being cleared away in the wards when Will arrives at the hospital. Except for cleaning, there’s not much call for the housekeepers in the rooms where the patients are all comatose, but the homely rattle of regathered plates and cutlery still sounds somewhere down the hallways, marking the linear passage of time in a building that otherwise feels utterly removed from the concept.

The breeze in the halls smells a little like cheap coffee, and a lot like sadly burnt toast. Other more hormonal scent-tracks in the air, marking the comings and goings of people, are largely obliterated by the fresh application of strong scent-deadening cleaning supplies - which makes the patch of _ rank _ rotten air Will steps into just outside of Abigail’s ward all the more startling.

The smell is an olfactory slap to the face, as ripe and mulchy as the result of a dog’s diarrhoea in a field of wet mouldering grass. It is, thankfully, not (and Will braces his hand on the nearest wall and lifts his feet up one at a time to check just in case) something Will has tracked into the hospital on his shoes, but the odour is particularly terrible in an otherwise pristine environment, like a small drowned something trapped and rotting on a blockage of leaves down a drain.

“You should be up and about pretty soon,” Will jokes to Abigail as he enters her room. “A smell like that could wake the dead.”

Or at least it could if Abigail _ were _in her room. When Will lifts his eyes from his own feet it is to discover the girl’s bed is empty, its sheets still rumpled, the machines surrounding it switched off with wires trailing over both mattress and floor.

Sloppy.

A needle of disquiet pierces Will sharp in the chest, and he turns on his heel to do a quick jog to the nurse’s station.

He’s a familiar enough face on the floor they don’t even ask to see his badge any more. “The girl in 408, Abigail Hobbs. Where is she?”

The nurse at the station smiles at him; the bad smell must have not reached her yet. “Oh, they just took her for tests.”

Will frowns, his unease growing. “What tests?”

Alana would not have started moving Abigail from John Hopkins if there were still important tests to be done.

“Uh,” the nurse flounders, casting about on the desk in front of her for something she apparently cannot find, “I could have sworn I just had the paperwork here a minute ago...”

_ Sloppy._

“Who took her?” Will demands.

“I don’t- I’m sorry,” the nurse dithers, still unable to find the paperwork, before pointing down the busy hall towards one of the sets of elevators, different from the ones Will had rode up in. “They _ just _took her; you should be able to catch them up.”

There is, in fact, still someone in green scrubs waiting at the elevators, an occupied gurney at their side.

_ Abigail._

Something is wrong. Will’s mind is very firmly telling him something is wrong here, though it refuses to provide him with any definite reasons for his disquiet, even as Will jogs in the least paranoid-looking manner he can manage towards the elevators. The rank smell of death and rot is still in his nose as his shoes hit the linoleum (_something is wrong-wrong-wrong_), and the elevator arrives when Will is still too far away to catch it.

The compartment is empty. The person in scrubs pushes the gurney inside, and turns around to press the button for their floor - making eye-contact with the running Will as they do so.

There is nothing remarkable to look at about the man in the elevator. Just another member of staff in his scrubs. He is of average height, middle-aged, plain-faced and forgettable. His ID is turned against his chest, so Will cannot even see the blur of his picture.

An awful understanding reaches Will’s mouth before his brain.

“Stammets?” he calls.

In the elevator, the man’s eyes widen in response, his back straightening.

Recognition.

The elevator doors slide shut.

Will all but crashes into them a few seconds later, too late for his smacking of the call button to do any good. 

The elevator is going down, so Will sprints for the stairs, reaching into his trousers to grab his revolver as he goes. He has no idea what floor Stammets plans to get off at so Will has to burst out of the stairwell at each landing, pushing past patients and medical staff who all look at him like he’s crazy when he checks to see if the elevator has stopped on that floor and, when he realises it hasn’t, dashes back to the stairwell again.

Will takes the stairs down into the bowels of the hospital, leaping several steps at a time. There’s a wounded beast inside his chest howling with Garret Jacob Hobb’s voice - _ Abigail, Abigail, Abigail! _ \- and _ oh, _ that _ fucking _ article on _ Tattlecrime-! _

When he stumbles out the stairwell door on the basement level Stammets is just about to turn the corner further along the deserted corridor, pushing the gurney carrying Abigail ahead of him.

Will raises his gun and manages a winded, “Eldon? Eldon Stammets?” if only because he needs to cover his own ass before shots are fired -

And a shot _is_ fired, ringing off the wall above his head.

Will dives back behind the stairwell door again. _ Well, that definitely answered _ that _ question. _ “Eldon -”

“I’ll shoot her if I have to. I will!”

Stammets is panicking, and panic is never a good thing when there are hostages and guns involved. He needs to calm down - _ Will _needs to calm him down, because Stammets has the advantage here. Stammets has Abigail, and if Will doesn’t do something he’ll kill her now or kill her slowly, taking her away and burying her, leaving her to rot away in her sleep. Not giving her the honour she deserves -

“I’d rather you didn’t, Eldon,” Will calls as calmly as he can manage, determinedly strangling the cry of Abigail’s father in his throat. “That won’t help Abigail, and I know how much you want to help her.”

If Abigail dies at the hands of another, it’s _ murder; _ it doesn’t _ matter _how they do it.

Keeping his gun in his dominant hand, Will reaches into his pocket to retrieve his cell, setting it to silent and tapping it to call Beverly - currently top in his calls list.

Stammets is suspicious. “You do?”

“Why do you think I followed you, Eldon?” Will asks him, deliberately trying to build rapport with the man along the corridor. If Stammets wants connection - to build connections, to _ be _ connected - then here, _ here _ is a connection. Will. A connection with Will, rather than the too-vulnerable Abigail. “I understand. About the mushrooms- the fungi. And us. We all evolved from the same place.”

“Opisthokontum,” Stammets explains, still sounding too wary for Will’s comfort. “A super kingdom of animalia and fungi together.”

“You’ve been helping us reconnect,” says Will. Taking a deep breath, he adds, “It takes a lot of work to reconnect a kingdom all by yourself, Eldon.”

“I’ve had help.”

Uh. Looking at the photographs of Stammets’ garden, Will hadn’t _ felt _ the presence of a second killer in his vision of the scene. But he could have been wrong. Will’s mental reconstructions are heavily informed by the evidence in front of him and his own experience - but evidence _ can _be misleading, and Will’s mind fills the gaps in the knowledge that is available to it with the assumptions that are most logical.

Assumptions can be dangerous, Will reminds himself, so clarifies: “The people you’ve helped already?”

“They understand now,” Stammets says, with the voice of the fervently devout. Great. People are the hardest to dissuade when they have something to believe in. “All of them.”

Stammets had acted alone.

Will bites his lower lip a moment, considering the wisdom of his next question - and then asks it anyway. “Didn’t the FBI dig them all up?”

Stammets’ suspicion promptly ratches itself up a few notches again. “Are _ you _FBI?”

A dangerous question to answer. “I-” Will glances down at his phone again. The call’s connected, so Beverly _ better _be getting this - “I’m coming out now, Eldon, okay?”

“I’ve got a gun!”

“I think you noticed, so do I.”

“Throw it down the hall, away from us.”

Crouching down on his haunches and extending his hand out cautiously from the safety of the stairwell, Will does so.

“And your phone.”

Will sends his cell out skittering to join his revolver - still on the line with Beverly. (If this encounter damages his phone, he’s sending the bill for repairs or a replacement straight to the bureau.)

“I’m coming out now,” Will repeats, and really hopes he isn’t about to get shot.

He leaves the stairwell again, step by careful step, trying to look as harmless as possible with his empty hands held up in front of him. His palms won’t stop a bullet if Stammets chooses to shoot, but, if he must martyr himself, he might as well get something like the stigmata for the endeavour.

Stammets is still standing where Will saw him last, by Abigail’s gurney at the corner. Gun raised at Will.

He doesn’t say anything, and Will can feel Stammets’ gaze flicking over him, suspicious eyes like frantic ants.

Will’s smiles have never been soothing things, but he has the benefit of his dynamic to aid him as he walks towards Stammets as non-threateningly as he can manage, his scent spilling out into the air: placatorily sweet, yielding. Chin lifted, belly and throat exposed: all say _ no danger here. _

“I’m Abigail’s friend, Will. Will Graham.”

The barrel of Stammets’ gun drops slightly, no longer a kill shot.

“You’re an omega,” he says. Wondering.

“All my life,” Will confirms.

“Is that why you understand? You’re an omega?”

“I think it’s just a me thing,” Will says, emphasising the _ me_.

From what Will can tell, Stammets is a beta - and most likely full of all the common beta assumptions about omegas. God forbid he get it into his head that omegas and their supposed _ naturally nurturing empathetic instinct _ are the answer to all his woes. _ Abigail _is omega, and Will would like to direct Stammets’ attention away from her.

“I’m very good at understanding. People. Concepts. Connections.”

Not completely gullible, Stammets moves back when Will moves within lunging distance, placing the gurney - and Abigail - between them.

Will wants to put his hands around the other man’s throat and _ squeeze. _

Abigail’s hair is a bit of a mess from her move, and the lights overhead wash her skin a sickly colour, but she appears to be otherwise unharmed.

“Did you read about her in _ Tattlecrime?” _ Will asks, nodding his head casually towards the girl. Informality, to foster accord. “They write some real bullshit. Didn’t think much of their article about my friend. Didn’t think much about their article on _ you, _either.”

Stammets’ gun drops even further, hope warring with his wariness.

Loneliness and desperation can make fools out of even the smartest of people.

It would still be too awkward for Will to try and tackle him over the gurney, over Abigail. “They didn’t understand what you’d done, what you’re trying to do._ I _ do. I can see it. The way you’re joining people to the mycelial network, helping them expand their minds and reach out the way they couldn't before.”

Stammets lights up at Will speaking his language: _ sold. _ “If you walk through a field of mycelium, they know you are there, they know you are there! The spores reach for you as you walk by. These people I plant - they become _ more. _ They can finally reach _ back._”

“I know, Eldon.” Will feels safe enough to finally lower his hands, letting them rest on the gurney in front of him, fingers brushing over and seeking reassurance from the warmth of Abigail’s arm.

Marking her, however slightly, with traces of his own scent.

To Stammets, it looks like Will is reaching out to him. And Will _ is, _deliberately holding the other man’s attention on him, only him, to keep Stammets from taking Abigail away to bury beside his other current victim, Gretchen Speck.

Gretchen Speck, who may still be alive.

Buried where only Stammets knows where to find her.

Will already regrets what he’s about to suggest. But - with the hospital still quiet around them and no signs of any cavalry about to arrive -, he can’t think of a better idea. “I haven’t seen it yet though. Would you show me?”

“Show you?” asks Stammets, and seems genuinely confused.

The beta _ really _isn’t used to bonding with other people.

“Yes,” says Will, and smiles as charmingly as he can through gritted teeth. “Show me your work? Not Abigail,” he adds hastily when Stammet’s gaze drops contemplatively towards the gurney, yanking the beta’s eyes straight back to him.

Stammets frowns so Will goes on, coaxing, “I just don’t think she’s ready yet. She’s got other healing to do first, before her mind can be opened to something like this. Besides, wouldn’t people ask questions watching you put a comatose girl into your car?”

Stammets considers it for a while (_please let this work_), but the hope of finally having someone to understand him, finally having someone truly reach out to him, eventually wins out over his doubts, as Will had known it would.

Leaving Abigail, and Will’s gun and phone, in the corridor, Stammets guides Will out through a nearby exit and towards his new station wagon, the vehicle parked in a dark spot out of sight of any of the hospital’s CCTV cameras. Stammets keeps his gun trained on Will at all times, motioning for Will to take the driver’s seat so he can direct Will from the front passenger side.

Will had - mildly - hoped that Beverly, and thus the rest of Jack’s team, might have figured out his location and summoned the troops before Will drives Stammets and him out of the hospital car park, but, with no flashing lights on the horizon except the morning glare of sunlight off the streets of downtown Baltimore, Will is forced to go along with his own rather hazardous back-up plan.

...He’s probably not going to make it to his before-lunch class at the academy. Hopefully _ someone _ will tell his students that, because their passive-aggression (probably quite rightfully) knows no bounds when Will has to cancel their classes last-minute.

Stammets directs Will on which turns to take and how fast Will should go, heading north out of the city, but mostly they drive in silence, classic country interspersed with advertising jingles playing softly on the radio.

Despite the gun, Stammets seems to be all but _ basking _ in Will’s presence, his expression aglow with the simple joy of having company at last. The part of Will that understands him feels bad for leading him on, but Will strangles those emotions quickly before they can blossom, the whisper of _ Abigail _and what Stammets had almost done to her enough to justify Will’s ruthlessness.

They take a circuitous route, but eventually cross the Susquehanna river as though heading for Elk Neck State Park, the location of Stammets’ original garden. However, rather than directing Will south afterwards, towards Elk Neck Forest and the park beyond it, Stammets has Will go north and onto the highway, crossing the state border into Delaware. It’s not long after that Will sees the signs for White Clay Creek State Park, and is unsurprised to be told to follow them, taking the wagon into the park and, some while later, off a patch of deserted road and into the trees.

Branches scrape off the vehicle’s paintwork as Will drives as carefully as he can between the tree trunks, the wagon bouncing as the wheels go over the dips and bumps of the forest floor. Stammets knows his path well; Will can see no obvious markers on their path, but Stammets guides him confidently to go left and right at certain trees and bushes, when to hug close against a fallen trunk because there’s apparently a bear trap set under the leaves to the right.

“That doesn’t seem very friendly,” Will comments lightly as he dutifully hugs the line of the fallen tree with the station wagon.

“My work shouldn’t be disturbed,” Stammets says rather fretfully. “The ignorant- they don’t _ understand. _ Humans, we share the same properties as fungi. Our thoughts can pass from brain to brain, mutating, _ evolving. _ I’m helping us along.”

Their final destination is a small shaded copse, ringed nearly all the way around with fearsome bushes. Will _ definitely _scratches the wagon’s paintwork taking them past the barrier and parking the wagon, but Stammets doesn’t so much as wince, gesturing with his gun for Will to get out.

Will does so - though not before clarifying that there are no more bear traps lying around for him to wander into.

“Not _ here,_” he is told rather testily, and so Will decides he’s probably safe to take a few steps away from the station wagon, stretching his limbs and rubbing at an ache in his chest that had been bothering him since they crossed the state border, though he hadn’t then dared to take his hands off the wheel.

In the shade, the ground is still damp and springy underfoot, and Will’s shoes sink slightly into the earth beneath the bright carpet of fall leaves. The air is fresh and lovely with the scent of the living forest, earth and oak and pine, and Will can hear a chickadee calling out somewhere in the branches above him, a two-note _ fee-bee _ distinct over the background drift of birdsong.

The ‘garden’ is set up much like it had been in Elk Neck, though, this time, only one burlap sack rises up from the forest floor, protecting what is almost definitely Gretchen Speck’s forearm from passing wildlife. There are no mushrooms emerging from the soil covering Speck’s body yet, not that Will can see, which gives him hope that, if organ failure hasn’t already taken her, Speck may survive the trip to hospital.

Two more shallow graves have been freshly dug in a row beside Speck’s grave. They yawn open on the forest floor like dark, wet hungry mouths, waiting to be filled.

One of these graves had been intended for Abigail.

The tips of Will’s shoes are brushing the lip of one of the graves before he has even realised he was walking towards it - the freshest one, still with the shovel used to dig it lying in the earth at the bottom.

Stammets had probably been digging earlier that morning, before heading to John Hopkins. Hurrying to get things ready for his new guest.

Will cannot look away from the black hole in front of him. _ L’appel du vide. _ Before he can fall, he jumps, crouching down until the sides of the grave rise up around him, his fingers burying themselves in the wet earth beneath him, around him.

There are graves behind Will’s eyes still when he closes them, the darkness swelling with the pulse of the earth under Will’s palms, the beating heart of a network that is at once both too vast and too small for Will to see.

In the darkness, in the rush of Will’s pulse… something reaches _ back. _

“See?” Stammets asks him, and, disturbed, Will’s eyes fly open again to see the beta’s eager face looming over him, Stammets crouched down on the edge of the grave Will is in. He smells like rot. “Do you see it now?”

For a moment, Will wonders if, had he officially been part of the investigation into Stammets’ crimes, things would have still turned out the same way. If Stammets might have still gone after Abigail. If Will might have still talked himself into - essentially - being kidnapped.

If Will might have still ended up almost on his hands and knees in a fresh shallow grave, with a deluded serial killer standing over him.

“I can see it,” Will says, dirt under his nails, the scent of the soil and everything living in it caught up his nose. “I can _ feel _ it.”

Stammets’ face wreathes itself in a smile. He’s happy, so _ happy, _to be understood, and Will feeds on it and feeds it back up to Stammets with a smile of his own.

Stammets’ grip on his revolver has gone lax in his distracted joy.

When he stands and turns his back on Will, looking back to the car, Will picks up the shovel beside him with both hands, considers the heft of it, and swings it hard into Stammets’ legs.

There is a _ crack, _ and Stammets falls backwards - directly into the grave behind him. Dropping his gun. Will catches part of the other man as he falls, unintentionally slowing Stammets’ descent, but Stammets still hits the ground hard, his back hitting the dirt before his head follows after with a nasty _ thump_.

Silence.

In its hidden place in the nearby trees, the chickadee cries _ fee-bee _ once more, and then flies away in a rustle of leaves and flutter of wings.

One hand still gripping the shovel, Will touches his fingers to Stammets’ neck. There’s a pulse, so Will throws Stammets’ gun and the shovel out of the grave and clambers out after them, heading back to the station wagon for the supplies Stammets undoubtedly has in it.

The trunk is full of stinking compost that Will rather quickly slams the door closed on again, but the floor behind the driver’s seat yields some lumpy sacking. When Will looks inside of the bags he finds a tangle of catheters, IV tubing, rebars and twine, the very last of which he grabs and takes back to Stammets.

The beta starts coming around, groaning, just as Will is finishing tying up his ankles with the twine to match his already bound wrists.

Stammets’ eyes are a weak, watery blue, watering even further with tears of frustration and pain.

“You said you understood me,” he slurs, when he sees Will hovering over him.

He should’ve stayed unconscious. It’s not an open injury, but Will has likely broken - or at the very least fractured - at least one of Stammets' legs.

“I do,” says Will, rifling through Stammets’ pockets for a phone and failing to find one. “You’re the one that mistook that for acceptance.”

Will leaves Stammets in the grave he dug himself, weeping and stupid with pain.

Really, Stammets shouldn’t be left alone after his head injury, but trying to move the beta from the hole in the ground and into the station wagon could complicate whatever’s wrong with his legs. The last thing Will needs is to turn his captive’s potentially minor breakage into a compound fracture, and have Stammets die of either blood loss or infection before trial.

Will doesn’t disturb Speck at all, save to check for a pulse in the pale wrist underneath the nearby sack. He finds one, weak, fast, and fluttering, and it’s all the motivation Will needs to move the weapons and then get straight back into the station wagon.

He drives back through the forest at twice the speed he went in, heedless of the bumps and scratches he subjects Stammets’ vehicle to. His route is probably not _ perfectly _accurate to the one Stammets had guided him in by, but Will manages to avoid any hidden pitfalls or traps, emerging out onto the road again. He marks the spot, then heads immediately to the nearest building he can see signposted - which turns out to be the park’s Nature Centre.

Clearly more accustomed to young families, the centre workers are a little startled when Will bursts in through their door. They go as wide-eyed as the stuffed owl in their display when Will brings out his badge to show them - one of the few _ useful _items Stammets hadn’t made Will throw away.

“Special Agent Will Graham, FBI. I need to use your phone.”

  


*****

  


By the time Jack arrives on the scene, Will has been back in the copse holding Stammets’ second garden for at least an hour, ambulances and law enforcement with him. Stammets has already been taken away (with two broken legs of differing severity and a definite concussion), and Will has explained himself at least two and a half times to various individuals from local law enforcement, half an eye always fixed on the careful exhumation of Gretchen Speck. The lights of the crime scene photographers’ cameras are giving him a headache, each white flash a burst of pain inside his skull.

Jack finds Will just as Speck is being loaded into an ambulance, the profiler tucked away in the back of a car to the side of the chaos, a bottle of water and a particularly stubborn paramedic who won’t leave him be keeping him company. The omega woman has, despite all Will’s protests, insisted Will be draped in a shock blanket, and keeps reaching over between every few sips of water Will takes to measure his pulse.

“My last _ girlfriend _ didn’t want to hold hands as much as you do,” Will grumbles into his bottle as the paramedic commandeers his wrist for the _ n_th time.

She smells like salt and apple blossoms. Really stubborn apple blossoms.

“Her loss, I’m sure,” the paramedic says blandly, which is probably a nicer response than her threatening Will with the blood pressure cuff again instead.

Officials elsewhere already interrogated, Jack is there before Will can answer her, large and looming and towing Price along in the wake behind him. Apple blossoms fade under a wave of cedar, pepper and patchouli, and Will’s nose itches.

“You’re _ supposed _ to be keeping out of the field.”

“Technically,” Will says, screwing his water bottle closed, “this is a forest.”

Jack doesn’t laugh, switching his attention for a moment to Will’s helicopter paramedic. “He fit to give a statement?”

Will sighs. “_Yes, _Jack.”

Behind Jack, Speck’s ambulance peels out of the copse, lights and siren clearing the way.

“Your heart rate is a little faster than I’d like,” the paramedic informs Will, which earns her points in his book for not talking over his head despite how much of a nuisance he’s been to her.

“Weak?” Will asks her, and, when she shakes her head, determines, “Then I’m not going to faint, I promise you. Look,” he lifts the edges of the fleecy orange monstrosity she had insisted he be swaddled in, “I’m not in shock. I have a blanket.”

The look the paramedic gives him is withering, but she leaves after one last stern instruction for Will to eat lunch sooner rather than later - a reminder that yes, Will has missed his morning class, and is probably well into missing the first of the classes he should be teaching that afternoon.

The indignant emails are, no doubt, already piling up in Will’s inbox.

“Speck gonna be okay?” Will asks Jack, giving up on the pretence that the alpha’s team hadn’t kept him fairly abreast of the investigation.

Will knows Jack knows Will knows about the case, and it’s far too tiring for Will to pretend otherwise with a pounding headache - even if Price does give Will a tragic look over the little pen and notebook he’s brought out to record whatever Will has to say.

_ Price _should be the one taking Will’s statement, omega male to omega male, so that Will is relaxed and calm as he recounts events. 

“She’s headed for a long stay in the ICU,” Jack says, his gaze heavy on Will’s head, “but there’s hope, thanks to you. She why you let him take you?”

“He did have a gun on me, Jack,” Will says, keeping his own eyes level with the pin of the other man’s tie, letting the weight of his water bottle roll from hand to hand.

Nobody says, though it’s heard regardless: _ in the hospital, so did you. _

“He was gonna take Abigail,” Will explains. “I could’ve maybe - _ maybe - _ brought him down there, in Baltimore, but there was no guarantee he would’ve told us where Speck was buried. So I convinced him to take me instead.”

“How?”

“Told him I understood him.”

Jack _ hmph_s. “Do you?”

Will lets his eyes slide away from Jack’s tie, out to the yellow-green-orange of the woods. He can’t hear the birdsong any more, or the wind in the trees - just people, talking. Cameras snapping. Engines revving as a wheel gets stuck in the mud.

“There are a lot of similarities between humans and fungi, but fungi- the mycelium all around us in the earth, can connect in a way people currently can’t. Stammets was trying to connect to people, and to help people connect.”

Jack _ hmph_s again, apparently unimpressed.

“Hasn’t he heard of Tindr?” Price asks. Then, as both Will and Jack look at him, “What?”

  


*****

  


“I was in the area and I saw your lights were still on.”

Will’s excuse for showing up at Hannibal’s office past seven at night is a poor one, but Hannibal graciously steps back from the door to allow his unexpected visitor inside regardless.

Bringing a soft wave of scent with him.

Although Hannibal is ‘only’ a beta, his sense of smell far exceeds almost everyone he has ever met, and, what biology has gifted him, Hannibal himself has honed. (Hyperosmia has its uses, but it has its drawbacks as well; after appointments with some of the more _ pungent _of his alpha and omega patients (and occasionally a beta or two who has been overeager with their perfume), Hannibal is obliged to go around his office and remove their lingering odours with scent-deadening wipes and sprays. The rigorous cleaning is, of course, of comfort to any patients who follow the more odorous ones before, a neutral environment awaiting everyone who steps through Hannibal’s door, for even an average beta can pick up, however subliminally, the lingering scent of an alpha or omega’s obvious anger or distress.)

Whilst he has only known Will but a few scant weeks, that is _ usually _ enough time for Hannibal to have established an olfactory overview of someone. To have factored in the natural changes to one’s scent variables such as one’s health, regular bodily cycles, emotions, diet and wider environment can cause so that Hannibal has a baseline to reference with all his acquaintances and can smell at once when someone is deviating from their norm. Even the most minute of changes in the people Hannibal keeps closest around him can cause major differences to how he conducts his own affairs.

Of course, even with something as fundamental as scent, Will - fascinatingly, frustratingly - defies categorisation, evading simple summation.

Will’s scent has varied wildly in all the time Hannibal has known him - along with his emotions. And the environment around him. His diet. And his trust in Hannibal.

The base elements are easily seized upon, yes - ozone, smoke, cardamom, pines -, and the hormones that denote Will as an omega. The smell of dog fur, and always at least the ghost of Will’s dreadful cologne - something cheap and clearly aimed at betas, far too heavy on the citrus and sickly-sweet spices to pair well with Will’s more elusive natural scent. But beyond that? Hannibal has to _ dig _for any deeper understanding of the man.

Unlike with everyone else he knows, Hannibal would not dare to announce in anything more than generalities that Will always smells _ this _ way when happy, when aroused, or _ that _ way when angry, when afraid. Hannibal has no true baseline to reference (_yet_) when it comes to Will, and so must leap from moment to moment in his interactions with the omega as a man hopping from drifting log to drifting log to cross a river, at the mercy of the currents as he discovers them.

This evening, Will brings the scent of the outdoors in with him like a portent: the city breeze, the sweet smell of clear freshwater, damp earth, and decaying leaves. The air promises rain overnight, beads of atmosphere clinging to the threads of Will’s jacket, in the curls of his hair.

The scent of him beneath that is… complex.

“I often stay late here,” Hannibal says, catching just a wisp of all these scents as Will moves past him and trying, in vain, to hold their transience for just a moment longer in his lungs, against the palate at the roof of his mouth. “Finishing paperwork.”

A perfectly good reason for Hannibal to frequently be out of his own house later at night.

Hannibal had just put his blue blazer back on less than ten minutes before Will’s arrival, preparing to head home and begin dinner. He has been soaking sweetbreads in cold water for two days now in preparation for tonight’s meal: a comfort dish made from the sliced roast rump of a particularly argumentative veal, served on a bed of wilted spinach with caramelised sweetbreads, sautéed potatoes and artichokes, all drizzled with a sweet cherry tomato compote. Perfect for a cool autumn evening such as tonight.

And yet not even half as enticing as Will's unexpected presence.

“Surprisingly little paperwork on my end,” Will says rather enigmatically, already striding across the room. He turns on his heel before the chaise lounge, the apologetic meekness he had shown Hannibal at the door - self-conscious about encroaching into Hannibal’s space and time - already shifting into something like a challenge. Shoulders back. Chin raised. “I’m on mandatory leave again.”

“Another traumatic encounter?” Hannibal asks mildly, curiosity already drawing him back across the office to where Will has situated himself, fitting his feet to where Will’s had stepped on the floor.

“It was in the news yesterday.”

“Ah.”

Hannibal wonders, for a moment, if Will would allow him to pretend ignorance of common knowledge - especially after Hannibal has already confessed to being a reader of the likes of _ Tattlecrime -, _ but ultimately decides that the prevarication would only delay his hearing of what is likely to be the most engaging story he has heard all day. (Not that that would be hard; prior to Will’s arrival, the highlight of Hannibal’s day had been a discussion with his two o’ clock appointment on the care and upkeep of _ nishikigoi _ \- ornamental koi_. _ His patient - an omega woman from a rich background and of independent means, still classically beautiful even as she ages gracefully into late middle age - is divorcing her husband after discovering his affair with their much younger gardener, and her chief preoccupation is who will gain custody of their small mixed school of twenty year-old _ kumonryu _ and cream _ ogon _koi, which she adores.

Hannibal has seen pictures of the fish. And of the much less impressive husband, who has threatened to cook and feed the koi to Baltimore’s seagulls if his wife proceeds with the divorce.

Hannibal’s patient has expressed the idea that she may carve up and feed her husband to the koi first, should he try it.)

Hannibal had, indeed, read _ Tattlecrime_’s latest update in the small gap between his last two evening appointments the day before. “The FBI’s troublesome gardener, I assume?”

Will nods, so Hannibal adds carefully, curiously, “I do not recall any mention of your name.”

“The details were kept from the press,” Will says.

Hannibal tilts his head inquiringly - and so, to his delight, unfolds a tale.

Will paces, gesturing, as he talks, describing his trip to the hospital yesterday morning: Abigail missing from her bed, the niggling sense of something being wrong. The determined Eldon Stammets, made gullible by his desperation for companionship and understanding. Abigail abandoned in the hospital hallway, country music on the radio, and the neat row of forest graves.

Will Graham, with a shovel, in the garden.

According to the news and as far as Will himself knows, Gretchen Speck is still in the ICU. She has yet to regain consciousness, but her prognosis is encouraging.

“Then truly,” Hannibal says, after expressing his pleasure at Will’s own safety after his ordeal, “Ms. Speck is a one the Germans would describe as _ eine Glückspilz_.” Will glances at him questioningly, so he translates: “A lucky person.”

Sensing a further elaboration Hannibal is still hanging onto, Will’s look turns shrewd, flicking - for a moment - to the dangerous directness of Hannibal’s eyes.

Hannibal rewards him with clarification. “Literally translated, it means _ lucky mushroom._”

Will’s laugh is startled out of him before he can think to look reproachful. By the time he manages to summon up an expression anything remotely like castigation, the damage has already been done: censure for black humour had only been Will’s afterthought, and they both know it.

Will glances away again, pink just touching his cheeks. “You often take refuge in audacity.”

“Few - seldom - trouble me there.”

Will makes a noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat and begins pacing anew. His travails have taken a good distance around the office - around the chaise lounge, towards the ladder leading up to the mezzanine, and to the other side of Hannibal’s desk.

Hannibal has followed him with some interest so far, his pursuit slow enough, subtle enough, that Will’s omega instincts don’t seem to have yet been triggered by the chase. Will remains calm even as Hannibal leans forward on his desk - mentally occupied elsewhere, if Hannibal must guess, Will’s shoulders and expression both sloping down into something pensive.

And then:

“Do you still consider me fit for the field?”

Hannibal considers the question - and Will. This close, the omega still smells of the outdoors, but there is something both sharp and sweet lingering underneath the rain and pines. “May I ask what prompts your question?”

Will mouth twists down sharply. “I broke a man’s legs with a shovel.” Disdainful at Hannibal, for asking something Will perceives to be obvious.

That _ most _would perceive to be obvious, hence Will being placed on mandatory leave for his mental and emotional well-being.

Hannibal re-evaluates his options, and shifts track to something more socially-approvable. The long way around it is. “You neutralised an armed and dangerous opponent with the tools you had to hand.”

“I didn’t -” Will’s words abort themselves, but their life is given to his hands instead, his fingers lifted restlessly to his hair in a hopeless attempt to tame his curls. Dark twisted around the pale, blooms amidst the briars.

Lovely.

He confesses, hushed, fingers tugging: “In the hospital, I wanted to hurt him. He was going to hurt Abigail.”

Hannibal very much wants to hold him, and has to pause for a moment to examine that impulse within himself. “...And it was important to you, that you protected Abigail?”

Will takes his hands from his hair before Hannibal can betray himself and remove them for him, aiming a scathing look vaguely in Hannibal’s direction. “What do _ you _ think?”

“I wouldn’t dare to presume understanding of the inner workings of either your mind or heart,” says Hannibal.

Will snorts, but allows himself to take support from his surroundings, leaning forwards on a folded arm against the nearest pillar buttressing the mezzanine. “It feels like I have the ghost of Garret Jacob Hobbs shadowing my footsteps, as the last remains of an echo in my head. I _ saw _ him,” Will admits, almost sagging, “in the photographs of Stammets’ first garden, lying there... in someone else's grave.”

Will’s mind is quicker to make associations than most. Hannibal tilts his head, wondering at this one. “Did you tell anyone else what you saw?”

“No.”

“It's stress,” says Hannibal. “Not worth reporting. The mechanism that distinguishes conscious perceptions from internal perceptions misfired. You displaced the victim of another killer’s crime with what could arguably be considered your victim.”

Something tenses in Will’s spine. “I don't consider Hobbs my victim.” Measured. Quiet.

“What do you consider him?” Hannibal asks, genuinely interested.

Will shrugs at him and turns away from the pillar. “Dead.”

Hannibal grants Will the brief moment of privacy evasion has given him, taking a seat on his desk with his back to the omega. “And when you hit Eldon Stammets with a shovel… who was it that you saw then?”

“I didn’t see Hobbs.”

“Then it’s not Hobbs’ ghost that’s haunting you, is it?” Hannibal asks the room, an inquiry in the tones of a gentle and inexorable teacher. “It’s the inevitability of there being a man so bad that killing him felt good.”

Behind him, he hears Will’s breath catch.

Just as Hannibal cannot see Will’s face in this moment, Will cannot see Hannibal’s. Therefore Hannibal has no qualms in allowing his eyes to slip shut and his lips to part, savouring the scent of Will’s memories. Smoke amidst the pines, the scent of some sweetness emerging from the chimney of a hunter’s cabin half-forgotten in some winter woods.

“Killing Hobbs felt just,” Will murmurs.

Justice sings in tenor behind Hannibal’s eyes, _ dolce e espressivo. _ The sublime strains of the _ Introït et Kyrie _ from Fauré’s _ Messe de Requiem _ drift into the vast atrium given to Will within Hannibal’s Mind Palace, voices sweetly soaring even as they plead, _ Kyrie, Kyrie, Kyrie eleison. Kyrie eleison, eleison, eleison. _

“Which is why my lights called to you this evening,” Hannibal says, opening his eyes to his office once more, the room touched anew with light. “To talk. To prove that sprig of zest you feel is from saving Abigail, not from killing her dad.”

“I didn’t feel a sprig of zest when I hit Eldon Stammets,” Will snaps at him.

“You didn’t kill Eldon Stammets.”

“I thought about it,” Will says, something a little jerky in his steps as he moves around the desk again, passing in front of Hannibal. His feelings spill out of him like his bones aren’t big enough, spice and motion, endless unsnareable eddies and gusts. “I thought about hitting him in the head with the shovel, denting his skull. I knew when I hit him in the legs that he’d fall.”

“If your intention was to kill him,” Hannibal soothes and rationalises, “it’s because you understand why he did the things he did. It’s beautiful in its own way.”

Will turns back to look at him, and his eyes contain a storm.

Hannibal holds his gaze as long as Will will bear it. “Giving voice to the unmentionable.”

When Will glances away again, the connection snaps - and with it some of the strings that seem to have been holding Will upright. The omega fumbles for a moment, searching behind him with a hand, and finds one of Hannibal’s leather seats.

He sinks. “I should have stuck to fixing boat motors in Louisiana.”

Hannibal stores that statement away to turn over another time. “A boat engine is a machine. A predictable problem, easy to solve. You fail, there’s a paddle. Where was your paddle with Hobbs?”

“You’re the one waving a psych eval at me, despite all the trouble it could bring us,” says Will. “_You’re _ supposed to be my paddle.”

“I could be,” Hannibal offers, rising from the desk so he can take the seat opposite Will. He leans in close as Will hunches over, building a small shared space between them for secrets. “It wasn’t the act of killing Hobbs that got you down, was it? Did you really feel so bad because killing him felt so good?”

He may be seated already, but Will is still visibly sinking. Hands pressed together in front of him, to hide the way his fingers tremble, his wrists shake.

“I liked killing Hobbs,” he admits, and his eyes seek out Hannibal’s again with their tempest, desperate not to find rejection.

Hannibal gives him none. “Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“God’s terrific. He dropped a church roof on thirty-four of his worshippers last Wednesday night in Texas, while they sang a hymn.”

Will’s mouth twists unsurely, and the blue of his gaze wavers, tempered with omega gold, misted with grey. “Did God feel good about that?”

“He felt powerful,” Hannibal assures him, for how could a deity capable of such acts not?

Will studies Hannibal’s face, his attention skipping across the infinitesimal tics of Hannibal’s expression like a pebble skimmed across the surface of a lake.

Hannibal takes care that the surface of his waters is smooth for the endeavour, beckoning, with the placidity, for the omega to linger on his shore.

“...Power’s a thing for you, isn’t it?” Will eventually surmises, leaning back into his seat. Setting light to that piece of divinity in his soul. “Control. Over yourself, over your surroundings.”

Tired of skipping small and ineffectual pebbles, it seems Will has moved on to throwing boulders instead. He is the type, Hannibal observes, to lash out in those moments he feels weak or attacked. An eye for an eye, blood balanced by blood.

“It must bother you,” Will says, “that I evaded your control. The thought that I only slept with you to ethically compromise you should you later try to analyse me.”

Hannibal mimics him by sitting upright, though he casts Will a look of reproof. “Come now, Will. You may make all the assumptions you desire about potential injuries to my ego, but please do neither of us the disservice of claiming your schemes were the _ only _reason we went to bed.”

There had been schemes on both their sides, though none would have come to fruition had Will and Hannibal not found each other mutually attractive, mutually engaging.

After Will’s plans had been revealed, Hannibal had only found the omega even _ more _interesting. A worthy adversary, after all, is much more difficult to find than a beautiful lover.

So called out, Will has the grace to blush. “My reasons are my own. Your motivations in all this, on the other hand…”

“Most have the measure of a man before they go to bed with him.”

Will turns his head away from Hannibal, showing off the lovely line of his neck. The unmarked skin above the collar of his shirt, with the promise of his scent glands below.

Were any of the many other, primarily high-society, omegas of Hannibal’s acquaintance to do such a thing, Hannibal would describe them as coquettish - but Will accompanies his move with a brief and indignant rolling noise in the back of his throat, just short of a threatening _ trill. _ An omega warning of old.

“I’m usually pretty good at measuring, Dr. Lecter, but _ you _ seem to defy the conventional yardstick.”

Hannibal dips his head in acknowledgement, knowing Will can see the nod from the corner of his eye; this is not something Hannibal will ever deny.

“Let me be blunt,” says Will, and spreads his hands so that each may grasp an arm of his chair. Claws pricking at the leather. “Why are you willing to help me with a psych eval? Despite the risk to our careers?”

Will can build a world on nought but a few suggestions. Sharp in every meaning of the word, he finds the keystones, cutting to the heart of things and building outwards from there.

“As you wish,” Hannibal allows, willing to trade a few belated truths for Will’s earlier vulnerabilities, “let us be blunt.”

Most people do not keep reaching out unless, at least once, they have been given evidence that someone will reach _ back. _

“I am willing to help you because I find the risk to be minimal,” says Hannibal, “and you to be far too fascinating an individual to be constrained by the inadequacies of others.” He considers for a moment, before adding, “We have not known each other long, but I like you, Will. And I believe you are capable of great things.”

_ I like you, Will. _ Hannibal watches the words get stuck in Will’s throat.

Will swallows around them eventually, head half-shaking like a puppy with water in its ears, like the sentiment refuses to stay down. “You make it sound- sound so altruistic, but… it’s a selfish desire for entertainment.”

“Can’t it be both?” Hannibal asks. “I can derive pleasure from the act of helping others, whilst, at the same time, enjoy watching what those I have helped achieve.”

Will purses his lips, and doesn’t reply.

Hannibal will not allow his silence, not now, even if the only way to draw out his companion’s eloquence is to somehow pluck it physically from Will’s skull.

“And you, Will?” Hannibal prompts. “Why would _ you _be willing to accept a psychological evaluation from me, despite the risk to our careers?”

Apparently disgruntled at being prodded whilst still sifting through his thoughts, Will’s answer is almost petulant. “I want- I want to protect Abigail. And others like Abigail. And I believe that the best place to do that would be out in the field.”

“A noble wish,” Hannibal says magnanimously. “Should I give you a referral?”

Will shakes his head again, and, inwardly, Hannibal smiles in triumph.

In his Mind Palace, Fauré’s choirs still signal the opening of their rites: _ ad te omnis caro veniet. _

_ Kyrie eleison. _

“Then would you say, Special Agent Graham, based upon our understanding of one another, that you are content for me to perform your psychological evaluation?”

“Based upon our understanding of one another…” Will lifts his gaze from where it has drifted to the pattern in the carpet, his beautiful, bewitching mind still visibly turning, turning, over and over again, “as content as I’m ever going to be.”

Hannibal smiles at him encouragingly. _ Good boy. _“I’ll have to type you up a new one tonight, to cover some of your latest exploits. But I see no impediment to your return to active fieldwork.”

He stretches forward in his seat, offering out his hand to the man in the other chair.

“To new beginnings, Will.”

Will regards Hannibal’s outstretched hand for a long, quiet moment without movement - before slowly, carefully, reaching out with his own hand to meet Hannibal in the middle. His grasp is equal to Hannibal’s, and firm.

“To new beginnings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Confit_: (from French _confire_, ‘to preserve’) a confit is any type of food that is cooked slowly over a long period of time as a method of preservation.
> 
> Some thought went into whether Will would call Jack or Beverly in the hospital, but I figured, at this point in their acquaintanceship, Will and Jack don’t actually have each other’s numbers yet. Jack certainly doesn’t have Will’s in _Amuse-Bouche_, as he has to yell for somebody else to get him Will on the line to warn him about Abigail.
> 
> Hannibal’s dinner: [roast rump of rosé veal with caramelised sweetbreads, sauté potatoes, artichokes and tomatoes](https://www.greatbritishchefs.com/recipes/rose-veal-recipe-sweetbreads-potatoes). You can assume that Hannibal’s take on this dish is not ethically, legally, or technically rosé, nor is it _veal_.
> 
> The [_Introït et Kyrie_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2CtCVgW8NKs) from Fauré’s _Requiem_. Some of the most tender moments between Hannibal and Will are scored with pieces of Fauré’s _Messe de Requiem_ in the show (especially when Hannibal is thinking about Will), so you’re going to see more references to his work. Gentler in tone than other requiems, Faure’s _Requiem_ has been called ‘a lullaby of death.’
> 
> And so we’re (finally!) finished with _Amuse-Bouche_. Congratulations to that one cop who didn’t die this chapter because Freddie Lounds didn’t write an article about Will Graham, because Will Graham never went to Stammets’ (canon) garden in the woods.  
On the other hand, condolences to Gretchen Speck, who got a whole heap more trauma than she did in the show, because she was in Stammets’ clutches for longer.  
Now, the fun can really start.


	6. friandises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will navigates a cold case, courting attempts, and Halloween candy.

Will returns to work a few days later and is immediately deluged with things to do: papers to mark, emails to answer, and classes to rearrange. A few of his colleagues have requested his major assistance in crafting a new multiple homicide scenario for the recruits in Hogan’s Alley, with the addendum of ‘we want to make it mean, and we want to make it _ weird._’ The subsequent passionate inter-departmental email exchange that results from the preliminary spitballing of ideas clogs up the first two pages of Will’s inbox and leads to another professor laughingly tossing a wadded-up paper napkin at Will in the cafeteria to get Will’s attention from two tables over.

“Not _ that _weird, Graham!”

After a summary amount of processing, the bureau returns Will’s gun to him, and reimburses him for the cost of his new cell phone when he hands them the receipt. His old one had apparently been shattered when no less than _ three _people had stepped on it in the hospital, and then they had run over the last remaining pieces of the poor thing with Abigail’s gurney when they’d wheeled her back to her ward.

Unharmed by Stammets’ kidnapping attempt, Abigail has now, much to Will and Alana’s relief, been moved to the relative safety of Port Haven. 

Will’s students have, for the most part, forgiven him for missing their classes - largely because whispers of Will’s involvement in the capture and arrest of Eldon Stammets are going around and they’re impressed again. It’s a secret in the Academy so, naturally, everybody knows about it. Thankfully, _ because _ no-one is supposed to know about it, Will doesn’t have to deal with his students standing up and applauding him again, but _ someone _sneaks a little pumpkin onto his desk between classes on his second day back. An ‘apple’ for teacher.

The pumpkin is a little white Baby Boo, as far as Will can tell, with Will’s solemn cartoon likeness kindly, if not terribly skilfully, drawn on it with several colours of marker. The artist has gone a little wild with the length of Will’s eyelashes in Will’s opinion, but the flop of Will’s curls and the shape of his glasses make it an otherwise fairly faithful depiction.

Will leaves the pumpkin unacknowledged - but _ does _give it a seat of honour on the side of his desk during his lectures (much to the quiet amusement of his students).

With the end of October imminent, the spirit of Halloween has descended upon Quantico with a grisly vengeance (rather fitting, since the windowless, 70s block architecture is so reminiscent of a tomb). Dangling skeletons and orange and black bunting en-masse is considered a little _ too _passé for the hallowed halls of the FBI, but a few Jack o’ Lantern stickers manage to sneak their way in regardless; the cafeteria manages to festoon itself with fake cobwebs, and a few luminescent candy bowls have been set out here and there. Occasionally with actual candy in them.

Will snags himself some off-brand chocolate peanut butter cups to munch on throughout the day - only to get caught with one hanging out of his mouth by Hannibal Lecter as Will is packing up after one of his lectures for lunch.

Lecter manages to condense so much judgemental _ distaste _for the peanut butter cup melting onto Will’s lips in one look, he might as well package up the solid product and sell it as a flavour of its own.

Will very pointedly shoves the rest of the candy into the hollow of his cheek before acknowledging the other man. “Dr. Lecter.”

“Is that your lunch?” asks Lecter, continuing to radiate the disapproval of _genteel _schoolmarms everywhere: _don't talk with your mouth full_.

“I have three more in my bag,” says Will, who had been planning to supplement the peanut butter cups with a hot sandwich from the cafeteria but now feels almost committed to seeing if he can survive the rest of the working day fuelled only with coffee, filched Halloween candy, and spite. “Along with two giant sour gummy worms and a packet of candy corn.”

“Truly,” Lecter says dryly, “a balanced meal.”

Will stuffs some more papers into his bag, trying not to crush them in his haste. “It comes in five to six different colours and, in some circles of thought, candy corn has been hypothesised as a vegetable.”

Lecter’s general expression suggests that the circles of thought Will is making reference to may, in fact, not be circles, but actually downward spirals into the worst kinds of depravity known to man.

From his own bag, the doctor withdraws a small thing wrapped in brown paper, holding it out to Will. “May I offer you something to complement - or better yet, replace - your candy hoard?”

Will swallows the melted remains of the candy in his mouth and takes the package a little warily with both hands, unwrapping it just enough to peer at its lovingly-swaddled contents.

Under the layers of two paper napkins and a little plastic bag sits one incredibly expensive-looking sandwich, miraculously unsquashed from its journey and bursting with filling. Meat, onions, and… some kind of topping.

“Barbecued ox heart in a white roll, garnished with toasted onions and my home-made salsa verde,” says Lecter - who is looking rather pleased with himself, for all his irises will never bleed that telling alpha ‘provider’ red.

“Are these anchovies?” Will asks, still looking at the sandwich.

“In the salsa verde, yes. Along with herbs, capers, mustard and vinegar. Do you not like anchovies?”

“Anchovies are fine,” says Will, whose prime experience with anchovies - after using them as fish bait - is picking the overly-rubbery ones off of pizzas other people have ordered.

He wraps up the sandwich again, and asks Lecter, somewhat suspiciously, “You drove all the way to Quantico just to bring me lunch?”

“And to deliver your psychological evaluation to concerned parties.”

Will frowns. “Email is a thing. As is snail mail.”

“The hard copy is always preferred for the FBI’s files,” Lecter replies evenly, “and I wanted to be sure your evaluation didn’t get lost in the post. And, since I was going to be here…”

“Lunch,” says Will, and sighs inwardly down at his donated sandwich. Lunch, and not a verbal or psychological attack. A thoughtful gesture following a thoughtful gesture. From Hannibal Lecter. Again. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, Will. I thought you might appreciate knowing that the paperwork is being filed on a full stomach. In addition -” Lecter reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws an expensive-looking business card between two fingers, holding it out to Will. “I was informed you have a new phone?”

“Uh, yes,” Will says, taking the card automatically despite the fact he doesn’t have a new _ number._

He’s just about to explain that when the focus of Lecter’s eyes drifts past him - and lands on Baby Boo Graham still sitting on Will’s desk. Of course.

Lecter’s lips twitch. “Does that pumpkin have your face on it?”

“No,” Will lies, and shifts as smoothly as he can to stand between Lecter and the desk.

Blocking Lecter's line of sight. Because grown adults are _so _frequently known for their issues with object permanence. 

Thankfully, Lecter doesn’t call Will out on Will’s - terrible - lie, and, after he leaves, Will finishes packing his bag (pumpkin included) and takes his sandwich out to eat in the sunshine.

The ox heart is offensively delicious - because what normal person goes to all the effort of obtaining, then meticulously trimming and cooking an _ ox heart _ just to stick it in a sandwich? -, pink and tender between Will’s teeth and flavoured fantastically with smoke. The salsa verde (anchovies and all) slathered over the meat isn’t sleeping on the job either, providing a good sharp kick with every bite Will takes. Will is left licking his fingers clean at the end of his meal, and finds himself fully prepared - after he stubbornly eats one of his giant gummy worms, just to prove a point to the universe - to walk back into the Academy building and be immediately confronted by Jack Crawford.

“So,” says Jack, _ de trop, _ falling into step with Will on the way back to his classroom, “Lecter gave you the ‘all clear’?”

No _ Hello, Will. It’s good to see you back at work, Will. I hope your mandatory leave was good for your health? _

“Seems so,” Will says neutrally, which is a better retort than the passive-aggressive _ and a good afternoon to you as well, Jack _burning on the tip on his tongue.

Jack smiles a little smugly, his scent heavy with alpha victory. “Therapy might work on you after all.”

“Therapy is an acquired taste which I have yet to acquire.” Will tightens his fingers on the strap of his bag over his shoulder, sternly reminding himself that he does _ not _want to try and prove Jack wrong here and have the alpha looking into the details surrounding Will’s psych eval. “But, uh, it served your purpose. I'm allowed back in the field.”

Jack’s eyes bore into the side of Will’s head, picking up on Will’s dismissal of the eval all the same and wary because of it. “Field’s quiet at the moment, so I figured I’d ask you to look at some of our older cases. Get you acclimated again.”

“Older?”

“Cold.”

They come to a halt in the corridor, students giving them both a wide berth as they go by.

“Jack,” Will protests, finally noting the case file in Jack’s hands. It is a very _ thick _case file. “You know I do better on-scene.”

“You did pretty good just with Stammets’ file,” Jack says stolidly. When Will tries to argue, he goes on, “You think I don’t know you were the one who gave us the pharmaceutical lead? My team’s good, but I can hear it when you put your words in their mouths.”

Will pushes his tongue hard against the back of his teeth, trying to not let something inflammatory slip out. No-one needs to see a professor and the head of the BAU yelling in the hallway.

Jack holds the case file out to him. “I’m not asking you to perform miracles, Will. Just give us your thoughts. A profile, if you can manage one.”

“These thoughts gonna get followed up on?” Will asks, chary of being handed some petty punishment busywork that will do nothing except accumulate more dust in some FBI storeroom.

“If you think they’re worth following, I’ll make sure of it,” Jack assures him.

Will takes the damn case file.

He doesn’t get - or make - a chance to look at it until later - much later -, pulling it out of his work bag by accident at home when he’d just meant to reach in for his little pumpkin self.

For the rest of the evening thereafter, through walking the dogs, feeding the dogs, and a microwave lasagne, the file sits on the side-table where Will had dumped it, glaring at Will out of the corner of his eye.

With the exception of his students’ essays and reports, which are far too frequent and numerous for Will to read and mark them _ all _in his airless little office every time, Will deliberately tries to avoid bringing work home with him. It taints his space, physically and mentally, a bleed-out effect built upon associations.

Wolf Trap is Will’s escape from the carnage of the FBI. The vast fields of nature around his home are as deliberately removed from the horrors people inflict upon each other as Will can make them whilst still allowing for a regular work-commute. An FBI case file sitting out in the open in the heart of Will’s home is an imposition, an intrusion on the peace Will has worked so hard to build for himself - and, what is worse, _ Will _ is the one who had carried it across his threshold and brought it out of his bag into the light.

Accidents caused by carelessness aren’t free of blame.

Will pours himself two fingers of Jim Beam, and opens the file. He can’t _ not; _he’s reminded himself that the file exists now, and that knowledge will haunt him until he’s acknowledged its ghost.

Inside the file sits a large assortment of paperwork detailing the violent genital and glandular mutilation of twenty-four alpha males - twenty-two adults and two minors - and one adult beta male, and the resulting death of seventeen of them. The attacks had taken place four years ago, across the state lines of Maryland, Virginia, and West Virginia, with a couple in D.C.

Assaulted both on the streets and in the supposed sanctity of their own homes, all of the victims had been rendered unconscious with a blow to the head before mutilation. The earliest victims, eight alphas, had all been castrated - that is, orchiectomised, their testes removed -, and the following seventeen men fully emasculated, their penises removed as well. All of the men had had their scent glands inexpertly (and not wholly) cut out of their necks, whilst ten (nine of the alphas and the beta) had also suffered the removal of the more minor scent glands in their wrists and thighs. The beta had been the final victim.

Death - in the instances where it had occurred - had unsurprisingly been due to both extreme blood loss and shock, with a side of blunt force trauma to the head.

The photographs of the scenes are lurid, terrible things, full of dribbles and pools of red and brown, drying blood. The bodies of the dead victims, clothes still half-yanked off, their faces still twisted in pain.

Eight men had lived, and their photos show the crime scene has travelled with them to the hospital and beyond. In the awful bleeding wounds and bruises on their bodies, each summarily recorded for the file. In the loss, grief, confusion and anger in their eyes.

In the space Will can see _ behind _their eyes in the photographs: the void, howling.

Will’s hand shakes, and he has to set down his empty whiskey glass before he drops it.

It slams down a little too hard to the tabletop regardless; nothing shatters, but the force of the motion sends reports and photographs flying around it. Some flutter to the floor, and Will has to crouch down and pick them up again before the dogs can tread all over them.

As he bends, something small, pale and rectangular slips out of Will’s shirt pocket and drifts down to join the mess on the floor. Dr. Lecter’s business card. Lecter’s full name, enough post-nominal letters to create a new alphabet, and occupation neatly printed alongside his office email, phone number and address.

_ Private _has been penned on the reverse in a rather elegant hand, along with a cellphone number.

Private.

Will contemplates the word, and the number written alongside it, for a few long moments, idly nudging Buster away from him when the little dog comes to investigate a) what Will is still doing crouched on the floor, and b) whether what Will is holding is something he can eat.

Buster trots off self-importantly to relay the knowledge he has gained to the rest of the pack (Will is doing human things of no interest to canines and there is no food). Will gathers up the papers still on the floor and scrapes them - and everything else related to them still on the table - in whatever order they fall in back in their file, taking the whole back to his bag and shoving it unceremoniously in there.

Fuck _ that. _

It’s late, but it’s not _ unsociably _late, so Will sees no problem in grabbing his cell and shooting the esteemed Dr. Lecter a text message to his private number. Since Lecter had seen fit to provide Will with it.

_ > The sandwich was delicious, thank you again. Really went well w my gummy worms. _

Five minutes go by. Will pours himself another finger of whiskey, taking it over to his favourite armchair to sip whilst petting Winston, who immediately pads over to lay his furry head in Will’s lap.

Will’s phone buzzes: Lecter’s reply.

_ >> I have heard - and endorse - the pairing of one’s drink to one’s meal, but I believe this may be the first time someone has given one of my dishes a complimentary recommendation of mass-produced candy. _

And again.

_ >> Good evening, Will. _

A stickler for manners. Will’s lips quirk, and he has to press the rim of his glass hard against them to keep down his smile. He texts back:

_ > Perhaps you should look into that _.

_ > Think of all the niche markets you could conquer. _

Lecter’s response is swift, considering its length. 

_ >> A brief envisioning of the consumer demographics those niche markets might contain is a suitable enough deterrent for that sort of career change, even were I not to have glanced at the ingredients lists of some of the candy you’d have me use. _

Will snorts, and drains his glass.

_ > That’s a very fancy way of saying you don’t want to listen to a bunch of elitist preppy meatismurder vegan moms who think enumbers and vaccines will give their babies autism and adhd _

_ >> Combined with a few of the individuals I met during my time as a practicing MD who did not understand the necessity of eating a piece of fruit upon occasion - no, I really do not. _

_ > Scurvy? _

_ >> Scurvy. _

_ > So you DON’T want to give me an alcohol pairing for my chocolate peanut butter cups then? _

The silence after that text is long enough Will assumes Lecter must have gotten fed-up with him and abandoned the conversation. He’s just about to get up and take the dogs for one more walk before bed when his phone buzzes again.

_ >> Try a barrel-aged stout beer. The richness of its flavours should bring out the butter-chocolate flavour of your candy. Or a cabernet sauvignon, if you’d prefer wine. _

And again.

_ >> And Will, please. _

And _ again. _

_ >> At least don’t pair it with a knock-off brand. _

Will laughs loudly and suddenly enough he startles Winston - and the other dogs, who sit up from their rest around him and begin to bark.

  


*****

  


Late October fills the farmer’s markets around Baltimore with an abundant harvest, the plenty obvious in the bright colours that linger in the mind’s eye, in the sweet, ripe scents that fill the air with warmth. 

That morning, Hannibal is another splash of colour amidst the wares, the tote bags over his arm already bulging with his carefully-selected purchases. The finer Maryland vendors know him by his bold sartorial choices as much as his discerning eye: a few of the stalls whose owners Hannibal regularly purchases from greet him by name, happy to keep back some of the best of their goods for an unfailingly polite regular with deep pockets and an actual appreciation for their wares. The sight of one of Hannibal’s bright suits moving gracefully through the market crowds usually guarantees them a good sale that morning - and a good conversation, if the crowds aren’t too busy. Hannibal is often content to linger over his shopping and discuss recipes, the harvest’s prospects, the occasional deft joke dropped amidst smidgens of market gossip and advice on what to buy and not buy that week.

So close to Halloween, the price of squashes is quite high. When he stops at one stall to inspect its wares, its owner gestures Hannibal closer so she can murmur in his ear: some of her crop of winter squash is ripening a little too late for the Halloween crowds, but will be perfect for market next week. Much better than what is available _ this _ week, all those gaudy pumpkins - or _ les citrouilles, _as she calls them in her mother tongue.

An old French expatriate, the woman has a low opinion of many of the New World gourds, especially the _ citrouille véritable, _ or true pumpkin, that the Americans love so much for their pumpkin carving this time of year. The _ cucurbita pepo _squash is too unwieldy, according to her, too stringy, too prone to be almost flavourless when cooked.

Her_ potirons, _ on the other hand, are much better for a good chef, for proper French cooking. The _ cucurbita maxima, _winter squash, is much sweeter than the true pumpkin, better for handling with its more elongated shape. And it makes delicious, filling soups.

When Hannibal agrees in his Parisian French and promises to come back the following week to purchase some, the stall-owner beams at him, reaching out with one wrinkled hand to pat his cheek.

“Ah, _ docteur,_” she laments, weighing up the pears he has chosen to buy from her today, _ “pourquoi mon fils ne peut-il pas être comme toi?” _

“_Madame,_” Hannibal assures her, smiling with a hint of teeth, _ “il n'y en pas deux comme moi.” _

Watermelon and cranberries are in season in Maryland and Hannibal has half a mind to purchase some. The fruits are very versatile, sweet with the last of summer, and lend themselves well to quick juices and desserts - a helpful trait, as Hannibal has found himself inviting people to his dinner table more impulsively than usual lately, ever since Jack Crawford had first walked into his office.

Including the alpha himself the night before.

It is very much in Hannibal’s interest to cultivate a feeling of friendship in Jack Crawford towards himself - and so Hannibal had invited the head of the BAU over to his home for dinner whilst dropping off Will’s psychological evaluation. Politely bearing Jack’s strong scent in his dining room later that night, the alpha's natural scent noticeable even over the smell of the roasted meat on their plates. Smiling at the way Jack’s chest puffed from being placed at the head of Hannibal’s table - without realising it gave Hannibal the opportunity to put the whole length of the table between them, and Jack the furthest away from the exits.

A watermelon and cranberry sherbet, topped with a sprig of mint and scattered berries, looks very dramatic served in a beautiful glass dish. Perhaps it might have served as a better follow-up to the loin and Cumberland sauce Hannibal had presented Crawford with, rather than the caramel-drizzled baked apples Hannibal had brought out instead.

Not that Jack would have probably cared either way; the man’s tales of his, his wife’s, and his mother’s cooking have Hannibal grimacing even the morning after.

Thankfully, the rest of their dinner conversation had been enlightening rather than horrifying, Jack keen to pry out Hannibal’s secret for the handling of Will Graham. Apparently Will’s decision to go for his psychological evaluation - and thus continue working with the BAU - has been entirely accredited to Hannibal’s influence, and so Jack now believes Hannibal’s guidance should be sought in generally steering the unpredictable Will onto Jack’s determined course. And keeping him there.

Jack is very concerned about the keeping of Will there, wary of reaching out once more to grab what he has already told himself is a sure line, only to find it fraying in his hands.

Jack has had ropes he’s anchored shorn away from him before, and now holds more tightly to what he has remaining. Reassuring himself.

Unfortunately for Jack, Will Graham is a man who needs support, yes, but not to be tied down. In Hannibal’s opinion, Will sorely needs friends and faith in those around him, and for those around him to have faith in him. A non- judgemental ear always ready to listen.

Hannibal intends to provide the latter. And Jack?

Jack, for all his talk, for all his concern, for all his careful clearing of the necessary paperwork… Hannibal does have to wonder how long Jack’s attentiveness to the state of Will’s mind will last, as long as Will Graham does exactly what Jack needs him to.

After reassuring Jack that he intends to continue offering his support to Will, Hannibal had led the conversation onto safer, lighter topics, and the meal onto dessert.

(Will’s presence had lingered around the table regardless, like pale fingertips brushing over the wood out of the corner of Hannibal’s eye. His figure in the flickering shadows cast by Hannibal’s candles. His eyes in the glint of the flames off Hannibal’s polished silverware.

His scent in the sweet mingling of smoke, pastry, apples, caramel and cinnamon-cloves, deep in Hannibal’s lungs and melting on his tongue.)

After a little more hunting through the market, the fresh cranberries Hannibal finally chooses to purchase shine like jewels in the morning sunlight. One of the little fruits is dislodged from its safe space amongst its brethren when the stall-owner measures out the amount Hannibal had asked for, the berry tumbling out of its basket, off the stall and down onto the ground below, where it bounces a little way and then is summarily crushed by the passing feet of the market crowds.

So much life, colour and movement - and it only leaves a little skin behind in the dirt. A small red smear.

Cranberries bought and safely tucked away in one of his tote bags, Hannibal takes care to step over the mark on the ground as he continues on with his shopping. It wouldn’t do to stain his shoes.

  


*****

  


Will spends the next few days bothering Lecter with texts asking him to match the worst and cheapest possible Halloween candy that Will can find to various beers, wines and spirits. Lecter tolerates it in good humour, suggesting a shiraz or a cognac to go with Will’s imitation M&Ms, and port or a smooth, generic mid-range whiskey for Hershey's chocolate (_‘whatever,’ _ he texts, _ ‘trite and *spooky* shape it has been moulded into for the season’ _ ). Butterfingers should apparently be consumed with bock, a traditional German-style beer that is as dark and sweet as the candy, whilst candy corn can ostensibly go with pretty much any wine or a light lager (_‘the dry finish should bring out the caramel flavours rather than the wax _’). Lecter recommends prosecco for Will’s Sour Patch Kids and gummy worms, due to the wine’s complementary tartness and fizzing bubbles - or tequila, if Will sticks his candy in a shot and downs it.

_ > Have you ever made skittles vodka? _Will inquires after the tequila comment.

_ >> I don’t believe I have, and do I want to know? _ Lecter texts back.

_ > I think we had very different experiences in college. _

Skittles - even the truly terrible knock-off version Will has found to send Lecter a picture of - should be paired with a riesling, a pale ale or a light rum. And the SPOKKY GHOST CANDY imported from China -

_ >> Do you even know what that is? _ Lecter asks after Will has snapped him a pic of the horrific _ blob _in clear packaging that Will has just fished out of an FBI candy bowl.

Will does not. The blob is a pale off-white streaked with grey food dye, squashed and bulging, and may be bleeding some kind of luminescent pink syrup.

He eats it. For science.

_ > Tastebuds say shitty marshmallow. _

Lecter recommends Will wash down _ ‘that crime against marshmallows’ _with whatever alcohol is to hand, because nothing that would complement a product that bad would be safe for humans to consume.

In his ‘free’ (_ha_) time, Will works on Jack’s cold case. Spreading out the photographs on the desk in his lecture hall between classes, the escalation of the unsub is clear. The attacks had begun with castration and the attempted removal of the major scent glands in the victims’ necks (eight alphas, one dead), and, over the course of seventeen months, progressed in both scope and brutality to full emasculation with removal of the major scent glands (seven alphas, six dead), then full emasculation with the removal of major _ and _minor scent glands (nine alphas and one beta, all dead).

Will doesn’t use the victims’ names if he can help it, refusing to let their minds, their personalities and their pain, sink into him more than they already have. Hopefully, he can help bring them justice, but he doesn’t want to carry the weight of either the living victims or the dead.

(It is a relief and a horror of history, still true to Will even now: the cries of the nameless dead are more easily dispersed on the wind.)

The previous investigators on the case had proceeded along the theory that the attacks had all been premeditated murder and attempted murder, personal in nature, either alpha on alpha violence or a beta lashing out against alphas they had known (in what the reports do not describe, but heavily imply, to be Freudian _ knot/penis envy. _ How so many knot_heads _ graduate the Academy every year and still use _ Freud _in their psychoanalysis is something Will despairs over). Pointing to the personal nature of genital mutilation for their justification, with a side-note about how alphas and betas had once sliced off the penises of those they defeated in battle, particularly if those enemies were alphas. To emasculate the defeated one both physically and mentally, to remove the opportunity for the defeated one to sire children to avenge their father, and for the victorious one to be able to display their collection of knots around their den: a sign to their mates of their prowess in battle against mighty foes, of their ability to defend mate and pups, hearth and home.

Personally, Will can’t really see the appeal in building a nest in a den full of decomposing alpha penises. And he disagrees utterly with the opinion that the attacks in the case in front of him had been caused by an alpha or a beta who had had a personal grudge against most, if not all, of the victims.

Aside from being nearly all alphas, and two of the victims having attended the same college (with a great many years between), the victims have nothing in common with one another: all different ages, ethnicities, beliefs, shapes and sizes. From different socio-economic backgrounds, with wildly different careers (or no career at all), in varying stages of health, with completely different hobbies and habits. How could one unsub personally know them all?

Additionally, for an attack committed by an alpha, Will would expect to see greater injury inflicted upon the victims than is reflected in the reports, with the genital mutilation in particular performed whilst the majority of the victims had been conscious, rather than insensate from a blow to the head. Alphas who are violent favour prolonged attacks and tend to gloat over their violence, requiring their victims to be conscious as witnesses to their own defeat. An alpha taking another alpha’s penis as a battle trophy would likely remove the penis as a passionate crowning moment of the attack _ after _causing multiple other wounds and injuries, to absolutely establish dominance.

Save the beta victim, the penectomies in Will’s file are largely dispassionate. The cuts inexpert, but limited for an amateur with a knife. Eight of the men - the earliest of the victims - had not had their penises removed _ at all. _

Will turns back to his phone and Lecter to complain, knowing the beta doctor would find the shitty Freudian analysis as annoying as Will himself does.

Somehow, it turns into a conversation between the two of them about the Italian _ castrati _ of old - or _ musici, _to be less derogatory. Those alpha and beta men castrated as children in the hope their voices would be strong and pure enough as adults to sing for operas, to fill the choirs of the highest churches, their voices lifted to God.

It’s interesting and tangential, a perfect balm for Will’s nettled sensibilities - right up until Lecter invites Will to dinner on Halloween. And offers to make rocky mountain oysters, since they’re on-theme.

Will informs Lecter that he is a terrible person.

_ > You’re a terrible person. _

Lecter ignores him.

_ >> Perhaps a full evening of Mexican cuisine, a seasonally appropriate nod to the upcoming Día de Muertos._

_>> In Mexico, our starter would be called criadillas. There are many ways to prepare and cook bull’s testicles, but, for us, I believe a light flouring before frying and a simple garnish would be best. _

_ >> To follow, calabacitas con puerco y elote: a pork stew, made with squash and corn. Served with rice and fresh tortillas. With crèmes caramel - flans - for dessert. _

Will’s stomach rumbles. Another feast at Lecter’s table is a tempting proposition, especially with contemplations of _ where _ they might eat Lecter’s promised dessert - but on Halloween? Will very, very rarely gets visitors on Halloween night, but he has classes to teach that day and the day after, and the road home, come evening, will be full of friends and families trick or treating, and drunken teenagers stumbling between parties and horror houses. There’s an elaborate corn maze not far from Will’s whose traffic is _ already _disrupting his drive home.

_ > That all sounds delicious, but I’ll probably be too tired on halloween. Classes that day and day after, plus halloween traffic, don’t mix well _

_ > Sorry. _

A trip to the lab is a good distraction from awkward text chats. Complicated (and non-urgent) conversations with Beverly are easiest to do in person - as messages sent to her email seem to vanish into a void -, and Will wants to pick her brains about improving the fibre evidence for his proposed Hogan’s Alley scenario.

Unfortunately, Price and Zeller are already picking her brains about the human race’s chances of survival against various horror movie monster archetypes. Will arrives just as Beverly announces that, obviously, supernatural enemies such as vampires are going to pose a greater threat to humanity than, say, a pack of incestuous hillbilly cannibals, and so is treat to Price’s strong refutation. Apparently the territoriality of vampires means that yes, individual cities will be lost, but the human race should ultimately survive a vampire invasion - and in fact eventually stage a successful rebellion against its vampiric overlords.

“Especially if the fanged fuckers burn up in the sun,” Zeller adds, to the sound of Beverly’s snort. “Incestuous hillbilly cannibal gangs, on the other hand, range widely across the country.”

“I feel like there’s a study in there somewhere,” Price muses, looking to the ceiling lights above them as though he’s already composing the opening paragraphs in his mind. He has inspiration there to look at: a small colony of black paper bats dangle from the ceiling tiles on strings. “A Comparison of the Migratory Patterns of the North American Vampire and Cannibal Populations.”

“In _ Media,_” Beverly stresses, sitting front-to-back on her computer chair and swinging it back and forth.

“Spoilsport,” says Zeller, and pushes her chair away from him with his foot.

“Apprehend any _ vampires _ lately?” Beverly shoots back, alpha fangs on playful show as Zeller huffs, before she spots Will standing in the doorway. “Graham! You come down here willingly now?”

Rather than asking about the room about the alleged territoriality of vampires, Will gives the woman a long pointed look up and down.

Beverly flaps a dismissive hand at him. “Some of us work here. Pity me.”

Amazingly, Beverly is more than happy to take a breather from all her hard work (apparently, waiting on a notoriously slow computer to spit out some results) and come to the break room to offer Will some advice about staging the fibre evidence that FBI trainees will be expected to gather and analyse in his hypothetical Hogan’s Alley scenario.

Will fetches them both a cup of water after they’ve been talking for a while (the smell of the break room coffee still turns his stomach), Beverly taking the opportunity to flick through the papers containing the - detailed - proposal Will and his colleagues have put together again, her own suggestions now scribbled in the margins.

“If this goes ahead, whoever has to do set-up is gonna curse you ‘til the cows come home. Getting all the DNA evidence and then spreading it across all your proposed sites is gonna be a nightmare.”

“You like it then?” Will asks, taking a sip from his cup. Lukewarm. _ Ugh. _

“It’s evil,” says Beverly. “Of _ course _I like it. But, uh,” she plucks out a familiar gruesome photograph from amongst the papers, twirling it at Will between two fingers, “methinks this doesn’t belong here?”

It’s a photograph of the dead beta from Jack’s cold case. On-scene, the mutilated corpse is lit baldly by the camera’s unforgiving light, floating in a coagulated sea of its own blood.

Will takes it from Beverly with a grimace. “Sorry, it must’ve slipped out of my other file.”

Beverly’s computer finally spits out the results she’s been waiting for and she has to return to - actual - work. Will has a class to get to in half an hour, so he gathers up his papers again and waves goodbye to Beverly, Price, Zeller and their paper bats as he jogs past their lab.

It’s not until he’s packing up to head home for that day that Will looks at his phone again, lighting up the screen in the dim of his lecture hall to check the time.

One text is waiting for him, notification glaring red: Lecter, again, sent barely a few minutes after Will’s last message to him.

_ >> Perhaps you might allow me to bring dinner to yours on the evening of November 1st instead? _

_ Seven dogs, _ Will wants to remind him, stunned and still. _ I have seven dogs. _ Trying to imagine, for a moment, the utter incongruity of Dr. Hannibal Lecter in Will’s home, fancy suits with sleek tailoring against the backdrop of Will’s mismatched thrift-store furnishings. Style vs. worn-in comfort. The debonair vs. dog fur.

The thought is strange, and more than a little laughable. Not that Will laughs. It makes something like a smile twist wistfully on his lips anyway though, which is close enough.

Will can count on one hand the people who have been inside his little farmhouse beside himself, and two of them had been deliverymen. No-one has visited twice.

Does he want _ Lecter _to visit twice? Will taps the edge of his phone against his lower lip and considers.

_ (“I like you, Will._”)

Despite it being an inconvenience for him should he decide to pursue Will as a case study, Lecter seems quite determined to tie the two of them together: platonically, professionally, sexually. (Romantically?) Will isn’t going to lie about the same misdemeanour with the same man _ twice, _ so he can only assume that Lecter really _ doesn’t _ want to publish any papers on him - or, at the very least, that Lecter places being Will’s… Will’s _ friend _above that professional achievement in his list of priorities. Friend-with-benefits.

They had shaken hands over the promise of new beginnings, but, consummated, their relationship would put them both right back exactly where they had been before Will’s psych eval: _ status quo ante bellum, _except this time the power of control would be balanced between them.

Professionally, anyway. Sexually and emotionally, on the other hand...

The light of Will’s phone screen burns through his closed eyelids. Spots his vision on the inside of his eyes, warm rounded shadows like fingers cupping Will’s scrambling thoughts, large, strong hands wrapped around his own. Handing Will lunch, dinner, cake and coffee. Fingers laced between fine cotton bedsheets. Striking a devil’s bargain between leather seats.

Will isn’t blind; his earlier tactics won’t work any more (like they had _ ever _worked). Lecter isn’t going to go away until his fascination with Will has run its course, and Will isn’t sure, exactly, what he could do to speed up that process.

If he still _ wants _to speed up that process.

Lecter is obviously interested in whatever Will is willing to give him, and not at all adverse to a little pushing of Will’s boundaries to test their firmness. He’s attracted to Will, and Will is attracted to him. And there’s a decent amount of mental engagement, of genuine comradery, to go along with their lust.

If Will invites Lecter to his home, if the aesthetic dissonance and obvious lifestyle difference don’t immediately drive the handsome doctor away and if Will doesn’t firmly put a halt to events heading back in that direction…

They’ll end up in bed together again.

He and Lecter will _ definitely _end up in bed together again, and Will’s having some trouble finding any real problems with that, provided Lecter is willing to keep things casual.

“Do I want a fuckbuddy?” Will asks his pumpkin twin, opening his eyes again.

Of course Will wants a fuckbuddy. He likes orgasms, and doesn’t get anywhere near as many as he’d like provided by an attractive bedpartner without something going wrong. Will has his hands and his toys and they’re _ good, _ but he also likes to be kissed. He likes to hold and be held, and have another’s warmth beside him, if only for an hour or two. He likes not to be lonely during his heats.

He _ really _likes not developing a crick in his wrist reaching back trying to fuck himself.

What Will’s question really means is: _ do I really need the stress of having someone like _ Hannibal Lecter _ as a fuckbuddy? _

Plenty of omegas have beta and/or omega fuckbuddies, especially around the time of their heats.

(Plenty of omegas have beta and/or omega fuckbuddies, right up until they do what is expected of them - still, _ to this day _ \- and ‘settle down with a nice alpha.’)

Will - God, Will had lost his virginity to another omega boy a little older than him, who taught him _ ‘how omegas ought’a kiss.’ _Both of them half-drunk on cheap beer they’d lifted out of their fathers’ stashes, necking sloppily down by the stream one summer afternoon when neither of them had been near heat. Wandering hands sliding south into the humid spaces inside each other’s shorts until the buttons and zippers had come undone, eager slick coating their legs and asses, their balls and cocks and mouths and palms.

In retrospect, the sex had been _ terrible. _Over far too quickly, and utterly lacking in any decent foreplay and/or finesse. Will may as well have been a fleshlight for the way his partner had stuck his cock in him, thrusting it jerkily in and out in a manner that had been more uncomfortable than anything else, reminiscent of someone trying to clean out a bird’s nest from their chimney flue.

Will had gasped his way to orgasm anyway, and thought it earth-shattering at the time. The new burst of wetness between them had had Will’s partner groaning against his ear like a dying thing, his fingers leaving plum-coloured bruises on Will’s hips, his stiff prick still hammering away at Will’s hole as he keened about how warm and wet Will was inside, how tight, how wonderful he- _ Christ! _

Most of Will’s better fucks over the years have been omegas. Sadly, there haven’t been many - fucks _ or _omegas -, either as long-term partners or ships passing in the night.

Why _ shouldn’t _Will enjoy himself, with someone who wants to help with that enjoyment? He’d just be doing what omegas do the world-over.

Baby Boo Graham gives Will Will’s own stern look.

Baby Boo Graham is incapable of giving Will any _ other _kind of look, though Will’s interpretation of the little pumpkin’s drawn expression may be affected by the terrible lighting and Will’s own emotional biases.

Will dumps the pumpkin in his bag, and sends Lecter a text.

_ > I’ve actually had a lot of mexican lately. Would gladly accept more if that’s really what you’d like to make, but chef’s choice? _

Lecter’s answer arrives just as Will is getting into his car, Will’s phone buzzing against his thigh until he fishes it out of his pocket again to read.

_ >> The chef would be more than happy to choose something else. _

_ >> I take it you’re amenable to my visit? _

Will is amenable, and, stomach swooping with the weight of his decision, sends the other man his address. They agree for Lecter to arrive at Will’s home sometime around half eight on the 1st, allowing the doctor time to get home after his last patient for the day, cook, and make the drive from Baltimore to Wolf Trap.

It’ll be a very late drive home for Lecter. If he drives home that night.

If.

  


*****

  


“Will, do you have a moment?”

If people are going to continue coming into Will’s lecture hall at the end of his classes or waiting for him at this one particular spot in the corridor outside, Will is going to have to get a whole lot better at packing up quickly and sneaking out amongst his students. His fellow professor, Clive Ericson, is just one more person in a rapidly lengthening list of offenders, and Will groans inwardly at the sight of him - _ especially _ when the alpha perks up hopefully the moment he locks eyes on Will, doing a hurried little half-jog so he can step in front of Will in a way that unconsciously tries, but doesn’t _ quite, _block off Will’s immediate path to freedom.

The move is annoyingly alpha, and Ericson probably (he’s not _ that _kind of asshole) doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

_ I’m not _ keeping _ you here, but I’d like you to stay. _

“...Clive,” Will says neutrally, acknowledging the other man rather than answering his question. Will actually has many moments, but he’d prefer to be spending them taking some aspirin with his lunch right now rather than making awkward conversation with a colleague who has an unreciprocated crush on him.

It’s Halloween, it’s a rather grey Thursday, and Will has been having A Day. Despite the fact they’ve got almost a week to do the latest assignment Will has handed them, his students are deeply resentful of being given any sort of work over the Halloween weekend. The resulting low-level grumbling had haunted both of Will’s lectures that morning, and Will had had to threaten to throw two of his mouthier students out of the hall in his first one.

Added to that, Will has a pounding headache, and one of the snottier superiors in charge of approving the new Hogan’s Alley scenario had sent out a rather ill-informed email overnight, naysaying almost the whole of Will’s proposal on the grounds that it involves a homicidal omega and _ ‘everyone knows omegas aren’t violent.’ _

Someone must have linked the sexist ass to the FBI’s records of omega killers before Will had had the chance to - swathes of files documenting omega killers, up to and including the quite numerous incidents of pregnant omegas and omega mothers who had literally ripped people apart with their teeth and nails when they had felt the lives of their children had been threatened -, because an amended email had been sent out some time later: ‘_everyone knows omegas rarely commit violent crimes.’ _

That kind of generalisation, and the sweeping dismissal of Will’s contributions based on such flimsy grounds, almost has _ Will _ready to personally show the superior in question an omega committing a violent crime. Will even has the claws with which to do so at the moment. He’d filed his nails down only a few days ago, but already they’re long enough the ragged edges bite into his palm when he makes a fist.

Ericson, standing upwind of the mild breeze currently in the hallway, fails to smell any of the tiredness Will knows his scent is putting out. The alpha’s body language is too happy, too eager, to have noticed Will’s dampening response to him, his cheeks a little ruddy and his scent tinged with sweat in a way that suggests he had either jogged or sped-walk to be outside Will’s hall when the class let out.

Great. Just… great.

Still buoyantly flying blind in the field of Will’s emotions, Ericson thrusts a very squashed-looking_ something _ wrapped in a ‘spooky’ purple paper napkin out at Will.

“Naomi,” he says, still painfully earnest as he refers to another one of the FBI Academy’s professors, “brought in Halloween doughnuts. I know you’ve been a bit too busy lately to come to the lounge between your lectures, so I thought I’d bring you one.”

Still holding the shoulder-strap of his bag like a barrier between him and all the social obligations life seems so keen to throw at him from the left field, Will looks down at the proffered doughnut.

The napkin’s edges are already oozing half-melted chocolate sprinkles and sludgy orange frosting. 

Ericson’s smile strains a little when Will makes no move to either respond to or take the doughnut from him. “Can’t have you missing out after all your hard work!” he urges, tilting his head in an attempt to catch Will’s eyes with his own.

Unfortunately for Ericson, Will has had more practice avoiding eye contact with other people than most other people have experience with pinning down Will’s gaze.

Will smiles blandly and keeps his gaze somewhere over Ericson’s shoulder, offering the alpha in front of him the view of neither Will’s exposed throat nor his submissively bent head. “Thank you,” he says politely, and takes the doughnut.

The napkin immediately sticks to his hand.

Will does not _ want _the doughnut, especially not when it’s offered to him by the hand of an unwanted alpha suitor, but he’d look like too much of a jerk if he declined it after Ericson has clearly crossed half the building with it to make sure Will had one.

He’ll be damned if he’ll _ eat it _in front of Ericson though, despite the pleased-proud flush of alpha red that swallows up Ericson’s iris, despite the sudden swell of Ericson’s content-hopeful-yearning scent of sunny, mossy woods.

There is a lot to like about Clive Ericson. A conservatively handsome alpha man in his early fifties, Ericson keeps his body in good shape with an early-morning jog five times a week, and his mind sharp by reading widely and playing puzzle games when he has time for a break. His scent is inoffensive. He gardens - he loves his garden -, his hair streaked with blond and his skin tan from all the time he spends outside. His in-depth knowledge about domestic and international gang culture is fascinating, and his attitude towards life and politics is liberal, forgiving, and progressive. He likes animals, and loves his family. He’s generous with both his money and his time.

There is a lot to like about Clive Ericson and Will likes him, he does, but he isn’t at all _ attracted _ to him, romantically or sexually. Isn’t even that attached to Ericson as a friendly colleague. There’s no spark between them, and Will doesn’t even find himself thinking of the other man except in the context of necessary work interactions. When Ericson talks for too long, Will’s mind actually starts to _ tune him out. _

The Magic 8-Ball of the universe has taken one look at Ericson’s dreams of a romance with Will and come back with a clear message: _ my sources say no. _

“Will,” says Ericson, because accepting food from an alpha is _ never _just about accepting food, of course not, “I was wondering- I know it’s pretty last-minute, but I was wondering if you’re free tomorrow night? My sister’s work is throwing a Halloween masquerade ball to raise money for our local animal shelter, and I have a spare ticket. I know you like animals, and I thought you might like to go with me?”

Somehow, Will manages to not make a face.

“...Clive,” Will says, trying to be as delicate as possible. He still has to work with this man, would like to continue being a friendly acquaintance with him, but _ why _won’t Ericson just take the hint? “That’s very kind of you -”

“If the masquerade part is an issue, it’s not too fancy, and I’ve definitely got a mask that would fit you.”

“I’m afraid I’ve already got plans for tomorrow night,” Will says, as gently and as firmly as he can manage.

Thanks to Lecter, it’s not even a lie.

“Oh,” says Ericson, and wilts rather noticeably. His next smile is a bit grimacing, his short laugh self-deprecatingly awkward. “It was pretty last-minute of me to ask, huh?”

Will ignores the extended opportunity to give the other man any hope. “Could I give you a donation for the shelter?”

Ericson somewhat morosely accepts the two twenties Will hands him, pausing after he stuffs them in his pocket to reach out and squeeze Will’s forearm. “Perhaps another time. Happy Halloween, Will.”

Perhaps never.

“Happy Halloween,” Will replies, free at last to go wash his hands, dry-swallow an aspirin, and get himself some lunch.

True to the spooky spirit, the cafeteria’s fake cobwebs are especially cobwebby that day, a few rubber spiders plonked unceremoniously in the midst of the hardier webs. A googly-eyed one gawks at Will from the top of the cash register when he goes to pay for his meal, watching Will all the way across the room to his seat at an unclaimed table.

There, there is more than enough room for Will to spread out with his things, Will’s food (a bottle of water and an undercooked, baked-bean covered baked potato) standing guard over Ericson’s depressing doughnut and a few sheets from Jack’s cold case file. 

Jack had asked Will for his thoughts on the case, and Will’s _ thoughts _are that the previous investigators had largely been biased idiots. He’s already listed the gravest of their offences for Jack’s edification, but Will would also like to add something constructive to the case alongside his corrections.

The beta victim… upon seeing the photograph of the beta victim mixed in with Will’s Hogan’s Alley scenario, Beverly had asked: _ Methinks this doesn’t belong here? _

The original investigators had agreed with her assessment. In a string of attacks against alpha males, the original investigators had decided that the final, extremely _ beta _male, victim had been an accident. In their version of the tale, when the unsub had realised they’d attacked a beta rather than an alpha, the unsub had been shocked out of their own killing spree.

Even ignoring the part where Will vehemently disagrees that the unsub had intended to kill their victims (and Will’s write-up of the case does _ not _ignore that part), there’s just too much different about the attack on the beta victim compared to all the alpha victims.

The beta’s is the only body - dead or living - to have _ hesitation wounds. _

The beta was the most violently mutilated.

The attack on the beta, unlike _ all the alphas that came before, _ has _ passion. _

The reports are old and the photographs are shitty: there’s too much space, too many gaps in the story, for Will to do anything like an accurate reconstruction of the unsub’s mindset in any of the attacks. Will doesn’t know why the unsub felt the need to mutilate so many men, why they had to cut out and off the testes, knots and glands of primarily alpha men in particular.

But Will _ does _know that if the unsub had known any of their victims, it had been the final one. The beta man. The unsub had felt something for that victim strongly - love, obsession -, to hesitate with a knife when they had not hesitated before, and then mutilate him so violently.

One of the earliest survivors of the attacks had managed to catch a short glimpse of their attacker before they had been knocked out with a blow to the head. The attacker’s face and hair had been covered, but the alpha victim had managed to vaguely note height and build.

Will’s recommendation is that agents take that description and re-investigate the people in the beta victim’s life. His friends and lovers. Ex-lovers. Neighbours and colleagues. Anyone that had seen the man often enough to love him, to obsess over him.

“I see I am not the only one who frequently eats lunch in the presence of the dead.”

Will looks up so sharply from his report he almost gives himself whiplash - and Jimmy Price, who had spoken to him, a heart attack. The analyst actually hops back a step from where he had been standing on the other side of Will’s table and peering down at the case file’s photographs, everything on the lunch tray in his hands jumping with him.

Food goes everywhere. _ Coffee _goes everywhere.

“Sorry.” Will winces, gathering up his paperwork so Price can set down his sopping wet tray on the table and begin mopping up some of the mess with the paper napkins he’d brought along with him.

A rather sad-looking burger appears to have survived the escapade unscathed, but Price’s plate of fries is swimming in coffee.

“I think it missed my clothes, so there’s no harm done. No, really,” Price says to Will’s disbelieving look as he sits down, depositing the sodden napkins on the edge of his tray like some soggy coffee-coloured mountain of shame. “I should know better than to disturb a man hard at work anyway.”

“You’ve got coffee all over your fries.”

“In some cuisines, that undoubtedly makes them a delicacy.” Price jabs one of said fries on his fork and eats it, just to prove himself.

After a moment’s consideration he puts down his fork, picks up his plate, and pours off the excess coffee into his little mound of sodden napkins - before putting the plate down again and resuming eating the fries.

“Don’t you usually eat lunch in the lab’s break room...?” Will asks, reminded all of a sudden about his own lunch - which sits on the table and looks at him accusingly, cold and uneaten.

“Oh, yes, but someone dropped a vial of something nasty in one of the other labs and we all got shooed away until decontamination can do their thing.”

“No-one was harmed…?”

“Oh, no,” Price says cheerfully, actually seeming to be enjoying his food. “Although it _ would _be a good day for someone to get turned into some kind of superhero-slash-villain due to a science experiment gone wrong, wouldn’t it?”

“As long as they wait until tomorrow to get their costume in the discount sales, sure,” Will says distractedly, occupying himself by shoving his papers back in his bag. He’s not sure if he can watch Price eat another coffee-soaked fry. “Would you like a doughnut?”

Price looks at him inquiringly, so Will pushes the squashed napkin-wrapped doughnut Ericson had given him to the other man across the table.

Price sets down his fork to carefully unwrap the poor thing. The doughnut isn’t terrible appetising after the many hands it has passed through to arrive in Price’s; it’s been battered and half-flattened by careless fingers and thumbs, and a great deal of the neon orange frosting that _ had _been decorating the top of it has now stuck to the purple tissue that should have protected it.

“You don’t want it?” Price asks - somehow without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

Will grimaces. “Alpha-gift,” he explains.

“_Ahhh,_” says Price with all the sympathetic understanding of a fellow omega, and then immediately tears off a chunk of the doughnut to pop into his mouth. Guilt-free. “Who’s the unlucky suitor?”

“Professor Ericson -”

“And you’ve given it away?” Beverly announces herself by slamming her lunch tray down beside Will’s mostly-forgotten baked potato, looking down at Will semi-reproachfully. Of course she knows Will’s feelings about Ericson, but she can’t help the little instinctive flash of hurt she must feel as an alpha watching an omega discard their gift. “He’ll’ve put his feelings in that.”

“I wasn’t encouraging him by _ eating it,_” Will tells her, and Beverly huffs at him as she sits down.

“You hear that?” Zeller asks Price, hot on Beverly’s heels. (Will idly wonders what must’ve held them up in the lunch queue.) “You’re eating a man’s feelings.”

Price, already halfway through the doughnut, doesn’t look at all bothered. “You want some?”

Zeller puts his tray down beside Price’s and tears off a piece of the doughnut to chew himself. “...His feelings taste like artificial colours and preservatives.”

“You should dump him,” Price informs Will, Zeller adding a _ yup _in agreement around his mouthful.

“Not dating him,” says Will, and tries not to smile at Price’s thumbs up.

Beverly turns her disappointed look on _ all _of them. “Are you really gonna judge a guy’s dateability on the strength of one doughnut?”

“Weakness,” says Zeller, swallowing his mouthful with extreme prejudice and taking a seat. “On the _ weakness _of one doughnut.”

“That’s far too much responsibility for a doughnut.”

Price waves one wise finger at all of them. “_First _ it’s a disappointing doughnut. _ Then _ it’s some carefully-scented piece of clothing they want you to use for your nest - that doesn’t match any of your blankets. And _ then _it’s a whole den of disappointment.”

“Wow,” says Beverly.

“Harsh, man,” says Zeller, looking at Price.

“But true,” says Price, and Will sighs and nods his head when Beverly and Zeller glance at him to see if he agrees. “If you can’t trust a suitor to pick you out something you like when it’s a relatively unimportant item, why would you trust them to pick you out something when it _ does _matter? Food for your heats. A den. A collar.”

“...You hate your newest collar anyway,” Zeller says after a few moments of thought, “and didn’t your _ brother _ give it to you? You always complain about it after you come back from a formal do.”

“My _ mother _ picked it, actually.” Price sniffs. “With my brother’s input, so, yes, it is rather garish. It matches _ none _ of my best shirts.”

“Your best shirts aren’t up to much either, if we’re honest.”

“How dare you? I have them _ tailored._”

Will tunes out the squabbling across the table from him, making a valiant attempt to try and eat some of his baked potato and its now congealed baked beans. He needs something inside of him to stop the aspirin burning a hole through his stomach lining, even though each awful mouthful of the cold cafeteria food makes Will pine melodramatically for the ox heart sandwich Lecter had given him the other day.

Unlike Price, Will doesn’t have a collar to complain about. Will doesn’t have an omega collar of his own at all. He has no mate or family left to buy him one, and omegas don’t buy collars for themselves. Even when his father had been alive there hadn’t been the money to spare to have one made, and Henri Graham hadn’t thought enough of the Graham name to engrave it on anything for his son by hand.

Will’s grandmother might have bought Will one in defiance of her son - omega collars for formal occasions are very much about _ keeping up appearances, _and that had been a thing of hers -, but she had died before Will had presented as an omega.

What Will _ does _have, however, is one of his mother’s old collars. It’s an old, tired, but still pretty thing, made of strands of blue silk woven together into a flat strip. Its large flat clasp - which distinguishes the piece as an omega collar rather than another kind of necklace - and dangling plain locket are both made of silver.

Will’s mother had brought the collar to her marriage and so the clasp had been engraved with her premarital surname. But the locket… the locket had been updated since those days, containing two blurry photographs: one of Will’s mother as a young woman, her face wreathed in a smile and the same dark tumble of curls she had given to Will, and the other one of Will as a baby. His hair already a shocking mess, his hands reaching out and cheeks dimpling at whoever had been holding the camera.

Will’s mother had had other collars as well. Will knows this, because he’d seen some of the ones she’d left behind before his dad had gradually sold them off over the years. Will only still has the blue silk-and-silver collar because it had been unsuitable for sale - the silver tarnished, the silk too stained with sweat.

Will had hid it a few times as a child, just in case his father had tried to sell it for a pittance just to be rid of it. The money it might’ve brought them wouldn’t have made any difference to their finances, and it is now the only thing Will has, apart from his looks and a few blurry memories, of his mother.

When Will zones back in again, Beverly, Price and Zeller are discussing the worst travesties of the season. All the shops are full of shitty ‘sexy’ costumes, and every building older than three decades is suddenly haunted.

“I was called to arrest a ghost once,” Will says idly, swallowing his mouthful of cold potato.

The conversation around him falls quiet, and Will looks up.

“What?”

Beverly nudges him with her elbow. “You can’t say something like _ that _ and not give us the details.” A half-hearted twirl of spaghetti slides off her fork with the motion, landing with an overly wet-sounding _ splat _back on her plate.

“It’s not even that much of a story.”

Beverly’s elbow nudges him again, a friendly prod rather than the jab it could be. (Clearly, Will is more entertaining than everyone’s depressing lunches.) “‘Fess up, Graham.”

“It was a long time ago,” Will hedges, but the expressions on his companions’ faces clearly say they won’t be satisfied until Will yields. He puts down his fork. “Alright, fine. It was back when I was working for the NOPD. My partner and I, we were working the mid-week night shift - and it’d been a pretty crappy night already, I remember that. Two trips to the drunk tank already, and one to the hospital after we broke up a fight for some hothead’s broken arm.

We were just coming out of the hospital when we got a head’s up about a nearby cab with a runaway fare, so off we go. There’s not a lot you can do about a ride-and-run except take a description and keep an eye out in case they try the same trick again, but this cab driver, he was _ insistent _we do something about the young woman he’d picked up in the Quarter. Kept saying he’d never had a fare run out on him before, and this hussy wasn’t going to be the first.”

“Sounds like a great guy,” says Beverly, dry.

“Oh yeah. We took the description he gave us and asked him which way the passenger had run after she’d left his cab, and then he came out with it. She’d just up and vanished on him from the backseat of his moving vehicle. No doors opened. _ Yeah, _ ” Will says, catching the look on Beverly’s face at his words, “that’s the look my partner - Cormier - and I were giving each other when he told us this too. Because, all of sudden, we had to decide whether we had the regular case of someone running away without paying their fare on our hands, or if the cab driver was under the influence of something when he’d got behind the wheel. Or if the guy was just tired and confused. Or some mixture of all three. He _ seemed _coherent enough - his eyes and speech were normal and he could walk in a straight line -, so we just had to assume he’d missed his passenger exiting the vehicle somehow.”

“Or he’d actually picked up a ghost,” says Price, munching on his fries again.

“Or he’d actually picked up a ghost,” Will agrees, pausing to take a sip of his water. “Cormier - he had more tact than me -”

“That’s a low bar,” Beverly observes, so Will elbows her right back for earlier after screwing his bottle closed.

“Cormier decided to just pass over the whole ghost thing, and promised we’d keep an eye out for any young women matching the cab driver’s description. But the driver just wasn’t going to let the ghost thing go. He wanted us to ‘eradicate the ghost problem plaguing the city.’ Rather than asking if he’d meant to call the Ghostbusters rather than the cops, Cormier politely tells the guy that he’s not so sure crimes committed in the otherworld fall under the NOPD’s jurisdiction -” Beverly hoots with laughter, and even Zeller cracks a smile - “but we’d follow up his complaint the best we could with our less-than-supernatural ability.

The driver wasn’t impressed, but we’d been there nigh on forty minutes by that point - outside, on our feet, listening to this guy bitch about a ghost we’re not even sure _ was _ a ghost. So when he looked set to launch into another long spiel, I couldn’t help myself; I cut in and asked, if we somehow caught his ghost, what we should charge her with -”

“You _ didn’t,_” says Beverly, already seeing where the story is going and gleefully aghast.

“I was thoroughly fed-up and I _ did,_” says Will, letting his teeth show in a sheepish grin. “I asked him what he thought we should charge his ghost with - possession?”

Zeller tries to laugh and swallow his drink at the same time and ends up spluttering into his coffee. Price sympathetically pats the other man on the back until Zeller can get his breathing under control again, Beverly shaking her head into the bottled green tea drink she’d bought to go with her own meal.

“The driver looked like I’d smacked him in the face with a catfish, but he let us go after that.” Will considers his own water again, and the remains of his cold baked potato - before deciding against both. His heart - and stomach - just aren’t in it. “We never did find the fare-dodger, or figure out if she was a ghost or not. And I moved to homicide not long after.”

“Less of the living to impress with your people skills?” Beverly teases, beginning to prod at her spaghetti again.

Will makes a face at her. “Says the one who works part-time in the _ morgue._”

“When it’s not filled with toxic fumes,” says Zeller, and gets the remnants of Price’s coffee lifted to him in a toast.

“I find the dead to be quite good conversationalists,” says Price, which is a distracting enough comment everyone else at the table has to stop what they’re doing and look at him. And his fries, which he is _ still _eating like they taste good. “They’re very good listeners.”

"This is why people look at us funny," says Zeller, half-resignation, half-complaint. "Can't you just talk to your cat?"

"I would if I could bring my cat to work," says Price.

"And put Zeller out of a job?" Beverly inquires - and gets kicked, petulantly, by someone under the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Friandises:** (treats/sweets/candies/confections/delicacies) There is no direct French translation (or French tradition) of the Anglo-American ‘trick or treat’, but, as American-style Halloween celebrations gain (a little) more popularity in France, some rough equivalents being used are _des bonbons ou un sort_ (sweets or a spell), and _bêtises ou friandises_ (mischiefs or sweets).  
Fun fact: this is the only chapter whose title is a plural. ‘Treat’ just felt a little lonely by itself.
> 
> This chapter actually got cut in half because words (so many words), so revelations have been slightly postponed.
> 
> Some tasty recipes:  
[Barbecued ox heart sandwich](https://www.greatbritishchefs.com/recipes/bbq-ox-heart-sandwich-recipe) (Anchovies are traditional aphrodisiacs, and this serves them with a diced heart.)  
[_Calabacitas con puerco y elote_](https://www.mexicoinmykitchen.com/pork-with-zucchini-and-corn/) (pork stew with squash/zucchini and corn)  
[Watermelon cranberry sherbet](https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/watermelon-cranberry-sherbet/)  
Hannibal’s candy/booze pairings come from a range of suggestions on the internet.
> 
> _It is an axiom of behavioral science that vampires are territorial, while cannibals range widely across the country._ \- Harris, _Hannibal_
> 
> Will’s ghost story is based on the - fake - fact floating around that the internet that some NOLA taxi drivers will avoid picking up fares from some areas of the city because they’ve picked up ghosts on more than one occasion and been stiffed on the payment when the spectres disappeared before the end of the ride.


	7. niflette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is delicious, and Hannibal forms some opinions about Will’s bed. Winston disapproves of _everything._

Rather than entertaining trick or treaters, Will spends his Halloween night cleaning. Will keeps his home fairly clean and organised anyway - he has to, with seven indoor dogs, or else live in perpetual muddy squalor -, but he clears out the more questionably dated contents of his fridge, transfers his latest engine project entirely to the barn, and moves up his regular weekend vacuuming by two days to get rid of the layer of dog fur on the floor and some of the furnishings. The spare room is aired out - technically it’s the master bedroom, but Will sleeps in his living room downstairs - and its bed is made with fresh linens because Will doesn’t want to make presumptions about how the following night may go.

Will then promptly presumes to file his nails down (again) so that he doesn’t claw Lecter’s back to shreds (again) if events head in that direction - although they do, he mentally insists to himself as he digs out an emery board, need filing anyway.

Classes the following day drag the way they always seem to on a Friday, with the addition that at least half the students at the Academy - not to mention a good handful of the professors and the FBI agents also in the halls - are bleary-eyed and hungover from Halloween parties the night before. Time itself seems to have lost its motivation for moving onwards, each passing minute marked out and _ felt _with each not-so-furtive glance Will’s students give to the clocks on their watches, laptops and phones.

Will’s own patience frays with every reminder but he forces himself to skip nothing in his lectures, reminding his students of their homework and its due date (that has _ not _ changed, despite the complaints). Each class is brought to a perfectly punctual close, one after another, and eventually - God, _ eventually - _ the day is done.

Trepidation hits on the drive home, another presence that walks beside Will as he takes the dogs out for a romp through the falling leaves in the ever-darkening evening, hoping to tire the pack out before Lecter’s arrival. Will fills up their bowls when they return indoors and disappears for a quick shower whilst they’re still eating, soaping himself down with scent-deadening products to hide both the smell of his anxiety and any hormonal expectations he may be unintentionally putting out.

One of the great delights of living alone is that Will can walk around his house wearing nothing but a towel around his neck and the lamplight and scandalise no-one. The _ dogs _certainly don’t give a damn that Will uses his living room as a bedroom, padding downstairs from the bathroom wearing only his birthday suit.

One _ drawback _ to this, however, is the sense of complacency it instills. Will feels unobservable in his home away from the world and frequently forgets that his living room-come-bedroom has very large windows that allow the world outside to look _ in _ on him - until he, wearing sweet fuck-all but his boxer shorts and one leg of a pair of comfy jeans, is very abruptly reminded by the sound of tires on the gravel road outside his house, his head shooting up in panic to see the beams of Lecter’s headlights slicing through the windows’ black.

Lecter’s timing is _ impeccable. _ (Not.) It takes a mad hop-dance for Will to get his other leg into his jeans and yank the nearest clean sweater to hand over his head before Lecter makes it up onto his porch, and he’s still pulling up his fly when Lecter knocks on the front door.

Will is still barefoot, and - towel abandoned on the floor - his wet hair is still dripping hopelessly down the back of his neck. It’s not the casually confident look Will had been hoping to greet Lecter with, but it’s the look Will is stuck with now the two of them can see each other’s shadows through the screen of his door.

“Doctor,” Will says as evenly as he can manage, opening the door to the night.

“Professor Graham,” Lecter replies in much the same tone, though there’s the amused glint of teeth in his smile as he lifts the - very - large insulated bag he’s holding up in front of his chest. “Trick or treat?”

From behind Will, there is an immediate skittering stampede of paws.

Will has a scant few scant milliseconds to catch the way Lecter’s eyes widen in surprise and step to the side before his dogs bowl him over - quite content to ignore their bad behaviour for a few moments and let them ambush Lecter instead. It gives Will the opportunity to swipe his used towel up from the floor and continue rubbing his hair dry, stepping back in to rescue his guest only when Harley starts pawing a little too hopefully above Lecter’s kneecap, the tension in the dog’s back legs suggesting he’s just about to jump.

_ “Down,_” Will tells his pack firmly, clicking his tongue and pointing away until the dogs obediently move off to give the humans a little space.

“I can’t recall the last time I had such an enthusiastic welcome,” Lecter says, none of his amusement apparently dimmed by the canine tsunami.

Another point in his favour. It should be alarming how those are ratcheting up.

“I did warn you that I have seven,” Will reminds him dryly, closing the door once everyone is inside, “and _ you _said the magic word.”

“Not _ trick, _ surely?” Lecter sets down his bag, elegantly peeling off the brown leather of his gloves to fold and place them in his pocket, the twist of his long fingers making the mundane action look like an art. “Luckily, I came prepared. Would a little homemade sausage be acceptable?”

“As long as it’s not the spicy kind.”

Zoe’s digestive system objects - via repeated liquid petitions deposited in places Will’s feet don’t like to find them - to capsaicinoids.

The sausages aren’t spicy, so Will carries on with drying his hair, keeping a watchful eye on the dogs to make sure they behave themselves once the food is produced and introducing them all to Lecter as the beta throws them each, one by one, a fat chunk of sausage.

Despite Lecter’s less than feminine attributes, Max is still happy to make friends with Will’s newest guest, the tricolour border collie’s tail swishing like a metronome and almost bowling the more timid Ellie over beside him. Jack-the-dog (whose hyphenated name makes Lecter’s eyes crinkle with laughter at the corners), Will’s German Shepherd, prefers to take his portion of sausage back to his bed to devour rather than deal with the antics of his siblings around him, whilst Harley, Will’s brown-haired molosser, is content to stay put by Lecter’s ankles, all four of his paws on the ground now there’s sausage for chomping. Buster, a Jack Russell terrier, officiously guards Lecter’s other side with the airs of a dog four times his size, his canine gaze alternating beadily between Lecter above him and Zoe, Will’s tiny elderly mixed-breed mutt with a noticeable malocclusion, beside him as she chews awkwardly at her share of sausage.

Winston - Will’s newest dog, a mixed-breed retriever with gorgeously brindled gold fur - stays pointedly sitting by Will’s ankles as the rest of the pack tuck into their treats, ignoring the piece of sausage Lecter holds out to him and pressing his warm body more firmly against Will’s calf when the doctor gestures in his direction.

Lecter’s head tilts - interested. “Protective?”

“Winston’s my newest,” Will explains, reaching down with one hand to rub fondly between the loyal dog’s ears, smiling at their softness. “He hasn’t had as much socialisation as the others yet, and you can’t always tell how a rescue is going to react to each new type of stranger.”

Winston hadn’t had any problems with Alana - perhaps it’s just male strangers he’s wary of?

“Time - and a hand by guided by love - heals many a wound,” says Lecter, and, after a moment’s consideration, throws the piece of sausage in his hands so it lands by Will’s feet.

It still takes Will nudging Winston with the side of his foot before the dog finally hunkers down to eat it - his eyes warily watching Lecter all the while.

Unbothered by the dog’s suspicion, Lecter huffs a laugh and starts to unzip his jacket, settling in.

The jacket is a darker shade of brown leather than Lecter’s gloves had been, the same colour as his boots, and both are a distracting contrast to the warm beige of Lecter’s scarf - not to mention the brownish-greyish _ thing _that is going on with the plaid pattern of his trousers. Adding in the gleam of gold from Lecter’s hair and in the flecks in his eyes, all Will can think of is frothed coffee and chrome, his towel uncomfortably clammy in his hands as his mind gets stuck buffering. Somewhere around Lecter’s newly exposed collarbones.

It’s a little bewildering to see the esteemed Dr. Lecter out of a three-piece (though the plaid has somehow survived the transition), but leather is undeniably a good look on him. Will has to wet his dry lips when the jacket comes off and reveals a cream v-neck sweater beneath, its thin material clinging lovingly to the muscles shifting in Lecter’s back when Lecter turns around to hang up his things on Will’s coat rack. Sleeves riding up just a little, showing off the fine bones of his wrists.

Italian sun, frothed coffee, chrome and cream.

Somehow, Lecter had seemed _ less _casual whilst naked. Somehow -

“You should take care you don’t catch a cold,” Lecter says, drawing close enough his fingertips can touch the still-damp strands of Will’s curls. This close, his intent gaze is like a shot of hot whiskey sliding down Will’s throat, bringing a flush embarrassingly quickly to Will’s cheeks and spilling warmth down to his belly.

It doesn’t help that it is only _ now _ Will realises, in his haste to get dressed, he had grabbed an older sweater of his to pull on: a thing with an abominably _ low _scooped neck, moss green wool stretched wide with age. Will’s skin is exposed across almost the full length of his shoulders, his throat - and scent glands - provocatively bared whichever way he turns his head.

“I’ll just -” Will takes a step back now his brain has decided to kick-start from its unhelpful location in his pants, gesturing uselessly towards the depths of his house, his dining table and the kitchen. And then fleeing in that direction.

Will has no idea what _ he’ll just, _not with his vision now compromised with gold at the edges, though he does manage to furiously scrub the towel once more over his hair to dry it before dropping it on a hook in his mudroom.

Thank God for scent-blockers.

Lecter follows Will to the dining table. There are no antlers or candles or any other type of fancy centrepiece on its surface, merely two rectangular grey placemats that Will had once picked up in a set from Walmart.

(Buster had stolen one of the two remaining mats in the set a few years back, chewed it liberally, and then buried it down an abandoned rabbit hole.)

“I wasn’t sure what tableware or cutlery to get out,” Will says a little awkwardly, not sure how to help as Lecter sets his insulated bag down on a nearby side-table and begins unpacking the spoils from its various compartments.

“Shall we have _ service à la française_?” Lecter asks. Will is not opposed - it saves someone having to get up from the table if there’s more than one course. “Very well. Two plates with a deep well, if you have them, or two deep bowls if you do not. Two bowls, two plates for dessert, and a smaller flat plate. And two glasses, with ice?”

“You do drinks as well?”

Lecter only shoots Will an amused look - as if to say, _ oh, but of _course -, the ass.

Will departs to fetch what he’s been asked for, along with cutlery.

Two small cakes have found their way onto the table before Will returns, and, as Will sets the cutlery, a glass and a deep plate each at each place as Lecter directs him, they are quickly joined by pumpkin spice cookie balls and chocolate-covered stuffed dates in Will’s two bowls. Each side-plate receives a small, beautiful bread roll, and two sticky toffee apples on their traditional sticks go on the small flat plate. A sleek thermos still cool to the touch is sat opposite.

It’s a feast in excess for only two people - an autumnal cornucopia -, and Will has to stare.

“Did you make all this fresh, or is this your leftover Halloween candy?” Will colours, hearing his own words spoken aloud. Rubs awkwardly at the vast expanse of one of his bare shoulders, warming the skin with his palm. “I. Did not mean that as rudely as it came out.”

Lecter hums, laying a serving knife beside each cake and a serving spoon in the centre of the table, apparently taking no offence. “One cake is fresh, though the other desserts are the remains of what I dispensed to the young children of acquaintances who called so hopefully at my door last night.”

“You got left with a _ whole cake? _”

“I initially made three,” Lecter says mildly. “But I could dispense my homemade goods only to those callers of prior acquaintance. Due to the - not unfounded - fears of adulterated candies and undeclared allergens, many parents and wiser children prefer their treats to come in sealed packaging with rigorously thorough ingredients lists.”

Don’t take candy from strangers - unless it’s Halloween: in which case, take the candy only if you can be pretty sure no-one has stuck gluten, lactose, nuts, animal fats, drugs, rat poison or needles in it. (Even legitimate weed brownies handed out by friends are suspect. Will had been dragged to a Halloween house party during his second year at Tulane, eaten three, and then spent the rest of the night crying about dogs in cute Halloween costumes on somebody’s front lawn whilst the strange, sympathetic alpha girl who had been petting his head kept trying to give him her phone number. She had eventually managed to write it on Will’s arm, but, after wiping his face clean, stumbling back to his own dorm, and devouring his entire body weight in bad pizza and dry cereal, Will had accidentally smeared it beyond recognition.) 

“There are worse things to eat out there than shitty marshmallow ghosts,” Will says - mostly just to see Lecter wince at the reminder of Will’s tragic candy bowl raids.

Having donned Will’s (least holey) pair of oven gloves, Lecter returns to his insulated bag to lift out something that looks like a wide, deep ceramic flowerpot with handles, still steaming with heat. It takes pride of place on the table, and Lecter doesn’t bother to mask his own satisfaction at it being there.

“Our main course this evening is a cassoulet, a peasant dish popular in the Toulouse, Carcassonne and Castelnaudary regions of France. The name of the dish comes from the pot - _ la cassole - _it is traditionally baked in.” Lecter gestures to the pot’s steep sides, placing the oven gloves neatly away. “The form of the inverted cone shapes the crust. White beans are stewed very slowly with meat, typically pork or duck and sausages - though the chef can, of course, also use whatever else they have to hand.

Our cassoulet uses confit duck, lamb, pork and Toulouse sausages. Something warm and filling for the colder nights creeping in.”

“It smells amazing,” Will admits as he takes a seat, because it _ does. _ The meaty aroma in the steam has brought at least four of his dogs over to investigate, though they depart with their tails between their legs when Will gives them a reproving _ tsst _and points them back to the front room.

“It will taste even better,” Lecter promises him.

The crust of the cassoulet gives way to the serving spoon with an auspicious _ crack; _Lecter loads up their plates and they both tuck in.

Crispy duck confit melts immediately on Will’s tongue along with a mouthful of fat sliced sausage and soft white beans: a rich and savoury mouthful that is almost a shame to swallow and make disappear. Will is quick to replace it with another, the bowl of his spoon slick against his lips. 

The cassoulet is still hot after Lecter’s hour-long drive from Baltimore, its meat tender and the cuts of pork and lamb as good as indistinguishable from one another in the stew, having obviously been cooked for hours beforehand. (God, where does Lecter find the time?) There are softened carrots, onions and garlic beside the sweet-saltiness of the meat and crunch of bread - and an iced cranberry cider smash to wash it all down with: the contents of Lecter’s thermos.

The cocktail is a cloudy one, sweet and smoky with a mix of maple syrup, cranberry juice, apple cider and some damn good bourbon. Floating cranberries bump up against Will’s top lip and teeth as he drinks, leaving behind small red stains Will swipes away with a flick of his tongue.

He catches Lecter’s eyes watching his mouth as he does so - so does it again, just to watch that dark maroon gaze darken further. Out of sight, Will’s bare toes curl beneath the table.

_ Trick or treat, trick or treat; give me something good to eat. _

Aside from the verbose introductions to dish and drink, their dinner is a quiet one, both of them basking in the peace that comes at the end of a long week of work, in warm, good food, and agreeable company in good temper. Will enjoys it, despite it being an unusual experience: being allowed to just _ be _in the presence of another, without the other person demanding something of him, in the comfort and security of his own home with a gradually-filling belly.

All Lecter seems to want is for Will to enjoy his meal.

When their plates are cleared, Lecter offers Will a second helping of the cassoulet, which Will has to decline if he has any hopes of finding room in his stomach for any of the sweets.

The principal dessert is one of the cakes: _ torta alla Monferrina, _according to Lecter, an autumn speciality from the Monferrato hills in north-western Italy. The cake is flourless, made with apples, pumpkin, dried figs, sugar, chocolate, amaretti, and rum, and looks like the best kind of fudgy chocolate brownie.

The other - leftover - cake is a toffee apple sponge.

“No pecan pie?” Will asks lightly, teasing, as Lecter piles up a portion of everything on a plate for him. Will is going to have to _ roll _through the rest of his weekend.

“Not until I’ve perfected the recipe,” Lecter says, peculiarly serious.

Will blinks at him for a moment, confused by the unexpected weight behind that response, but is quickly distracted by the plate full of good things that Lecter places smoothly before him.

The _ torta alla Monferrina _is clearly the focal point of the plate, but around the dark square of cake Lecter has arranged a toffee apple, a handful each of the pumpkin spice cookie balls and chocolate-covered stuffed dates, and a daunting wedge of the toffee apple cake.

Something fancy - and then more plebian treats. All this following a whiskey drink and a peasant dish, clearly catered to Will’s tastes. Despite himself- oh fuck it, Will is charmed.

The fact the Italian not-a-brownie is painfully delicious, rich and moist and fudgy, has nothing to do with it.

Will eats until it feels as though he could burst if one more morsel were to pass his lips, and then halfheartedly bickers with Lecter about what to do with all the leftovers. Of which there is a _ lot. _ Lecter wants to leave them all with Will, which Will cannot in good conscience allow without one hell of a protest - but. He’s warm and full and lazy, and the alcohol and Lecter’s determined argument of ‘ _ Will, I made these for _you’ brings a flush to Will’s cheeks that seems to have set up a permanent home there that evening.

As Lecter starts hunting out plastic tubs to distribute the remains of the cassoulet and treats into, Will starts washing up. The air is soft with chemical pine and bubbles - and Lecter’s gold-spice-warmth radiating all along Will’s side when the beta joins him at the sink, a worn dishtowel in his hands as he rubs Will’s tableware dry.

They work quietly together, the electrics humming under the _ clack _ and _ clink _of cutlery, glasses and plates, the wind whispering in the trees outside. The dogs shifting and snuffling in the living room. Time slows down like a drip of honey, amber sap - everything enclosed, slow and safe, in this little quiet pool of light.

“I need to walk the dogs after this,” Will says eventually, quietly, offering his guest another plate to dry. “Would you like to come with me?”

He can feel Lecter’s gaze searing into the side of his head, hot on Will’s brow as Lecter tries to catch Will’s eyes. Wet fingers. The drips of water down Will’s wrist. He fails.

“...Working off our meal?” Lecter inquires at last, all that warmth in his voice as well, melting Will’s bones.

His hip bridges the scant gap that had been between them as he turns to set down the dried plate, a press of firm heat over bone.

Will has to - one-handed - grip the sink for support, weight rocking onto the balls of his feet. “Something like that,” he agrees distractedly, and hopes he doesn’t sound as breathless as he feels.

A small shining soap bubble drifts past his face.

Lecter accepts. When the food is away, the dishes done, and boots, gloves, scarves and jackets donned, they head out into the black of the night together, and Will’s pack streams ahead of them in a shadowy river of bounding paws and swishing tails.

It’s so cold outside, but Will hardly notices. Lecter keeps close by his side, and, from the inside-out, Will feels like he could be glowing.

  


*****

  


The woods around Will’s little house in Wolf Trap are lovely, dark and deep, alive even in the night with covert animal rustlings and the wind in the trees. Two days out from a new moon and a good half mile from the lights of Will’s home the sky is all yawning blackness swept with stars, and the smell of the wild in the crisp new November air tastes like witchcraft on the tongue.

Hannibal’s senses are stirred by the sounds and smells all around him: the woods themselves and all the animals that must dwell within it, the panting and padding of each of Will’s dogs as they dart ahead on their route, and the warm breathing body of Will himself at Hannibal’s side. Fairfax county is hardly the middle of nowhere, but, like this, at this moment, in the dark promise of the woods and the night, Hannibal and Will could be the last two humans in the world. 

Darkness becomes Will. It silvers the line of his throat and the cut of his jaw, and turns his luminous eyes and hair to pools of drowning ink. If Hannibal were to reach out and touch Will’s face, the night’s magic would let the colour spill out over Hannibal’s fingertips, the promising shadow of Will’s mouth smeared by Hannibal’s thumb even as Hannibal’s own mouth sought out the vast sweep of pale bare skin Will has currently hidden away beneath his jacket, the unwrapped gift of throat, clavicles and shoulders.

Unfortunately for Hannibal, Will seems to have brought a self-appointed chaperone along with them on their walk: the mutt Will had called Winston. Clearly the smartest of the seven, the dog has chosen not to bound off into the trees with the rest of his pack and has instead protectively inserted his furry body between Hannibal and Will’s as they walk together, determined to be a hindrance to Hannibal’s efforts to seduce his master. Hannibal is restricted to keeping an eye on their scenery and making light conversation with Will about their working week, unable to thwart Will’s determined furry guardian in a way Will wouldn’t object to whilst minding his own step in the woods, roots and fallen branches underfoot, unfamiliar bushes snagging idly at his clothes.

The nights are damp this time of year. Off the beaten path, boots easily stick in the cold mud.

Grudgingly, Hannibal has to admire Winston’s stubbornness, the streak of obvious intelligence in the mutt’s eyes. Unlike the other six canines, Winston had recognised the threat in Hannibal and refused to consider it diminished even with a bribe, loyally, determinedly, placing himself between that threat and his newfound master. And refusing to budge.

For the full half hour of their walk.

“You look put-out, doctor,” Will teases him, touching his fingers to the crease of Hannibal’s elbow for a moment to guide Hannibal around a fallen log as they turn back towards the house. “Did you get something nasty on your shiny boots?”

“Strangely enough, I do _ not _ recall a warning about there being something nasty out here to step in,” Hannibal sallies back, taking the opportunity to step closer to Will and push Winston out just in front of the two of them. The dog gives him a dirty look, but Hannibal ignores him and turns his next question to a murmur close by the shell of Will’s ear. “Was I led out here under false pretences?”

Will, delightfully, shivers, and tries to mask it by lifting his hand to that same ear, leaning away from Hannibal to tuck his hair back behind it. “I would think someone who is at least _ reasonably _intelligent should already know that woods, in general, tend to contain many nasty things, and so, when planning to go for a trek in them, should be prepared accordingly.”

“Putting aside the implicit remark about my _ reasonable _intelligence -” Hannibal says, smiling when Will begins to laugh beside him, “I would remind you that physical, mental, and emotional preparedness are all separate considerations. An individual may be fully prepared in advance for anything the elements may physically throw at him, but only understand the full mental and emotional ramifications after the fact.”

The white fangs of Will’s grin flash in the dark. “You need to be prepared _ emotionally _to get coyote shit on your boots?”

“If I were actually attached to this pair, I might never recover.”

Will starts laughing again, the sound bubbling out of him good-naturedly and inviting Hannibal to grin along with him. Hannibal does so, content to join in with the joke at his expense since it is buying him something of much more value, Will closing the distance between them once more, his shoulders loose and relaxed at Hannibal’s side.

Two of the smaller dogs of Will’s pack have now joined Winston to trot just ahead of them on the way back to the house, proudly carrying one large stick - a branch, really - between them. The sight is comical, and even Winston seems to have forgotten to devote all his distrust at Hannibal when he must avoid getting accidentally swiped into a bush by the business end of a tree branch when one of his siblings forgets that their stick has dangerously widened their circumference.

Hannibal has enjoyed seeing these woods, Will’s own land and haunts, through Will’s eyes, at Will’s side. It is easier to walk a mile in another man’s boots than in his brain, and Will has given Hannibal something very close to both in one nocturnal wander.

Ahead of them, through the trees, the lights of Will’s house come into view.

The dogs all race ahead immediately, dropping any burdens they might be carrying and breaking the treeline to bound gleefully across the fields to their home. Will, however, pauses as they leave the dark depths of the woods, reaching out to touch Hannibal’s arm to bring Hannibal to a curious halt beside him as well. He doesn’t say anything or even look at Hannibal whilst doing so; instead, Will’s gaze is fixed ahead, looking across the fields after his dogs, at his home.

His expression and form possess, for the moment, all the serenity of the classical statues of old, his body still but loose and open, his colours lost to the shadows of night and eyes turned to flat discs of reflected light. A not-quite smile hovers on Will’s lips that could promise either divine benevolence or mockery, and, when the breeze grows still for a moment, the illusion becomes complete: even Will’s wild curls rest for a moment upon his head, framing a face caught, it feels like, in a moment of sweetness for the ages.

After a few silent minutes of scrutiny, Hannibal turns his own eyes away from Will’s face to the view that has his companion so enthralled - unsure as to what exactly Will is trying to show him, but pleased that Will _ is _showing it to him. To share something with Hannibal that brings him such a sweet tranquility, handing Hannibal one of the small shining keys that secure his beguiling soul.

Will’s house lies ahead of them, golden light spilling out of its windows into the darkness around it like candlelight in a church on a cold winter’s night. Something of the sight of it feels like warmth, feels like sanctuary, the wind stirring the grass of the fields around the small dreaming home as though parting the waters for Will and Hannibal to get there. Seven dogs already romp on the porch, the playful sound of their occasional barks mixing with the sound of the wind in the woods and fields, all the movements of the night.

Outside in the breathing darkness, Will moves again at last. His hand slides down Hannibal’s arm, pressure and warmth against cloth and hide, tracing almost reverently around the scent gland in Hannibal’s wrist and into the valley of his palm. There, Will weaves their fingers lightly together, his chilled bare skin against the leather of Hannibal’s gloves.

Hannibal keeps his eyes on Will’s house but a quiet triumph preens inside his chest. Only a little while ago Will had scaled the ladder to Hannibal’s mezzanine rather than bodily come within so many metres of Hannibal, and now, here he is, actively seeking out Hannibal’s touch. Again.

“It’s late,” Will says, his words seeming to bloom organically from the darkness rather than interrupting it.

Hannibal doesn’t reply, letting the quiet hang, giving Will the space to continue as he pleases.

“You could stay. If you’d rather not make the long drive back to Baltimore tonight.” Will gives Hannibal’s hand a brief squeeze before retracting it, drawing Hannibal’s gaze back to him and the hesitant flicker of his smile. “Wouldn’t want you falling asleep behind the wheel.”

“Is there somewhere else you’d rather I fall asleep, Will?” Hannibal inquires - and then smiles as well in encouragement, coaxing Will into unfurling from his defensive ball once more.Will must be starved of smiles for the way he softens at the sight of them, for the way he must often search for a few stunned seconds before one hitches itself into place upon his lips in response. “In the interests of personal safety, of course.”

“There’s no- I have a spare bed that you’re more than welcome to, if you just want to crash. But if you’re still… If you’d like -” Will takes a deep breath, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he looks up at Hannibal from under his long eyelashes. The lights of his house pick out every strand in filigree gold. “I’ve been rethinking your comment about us being friends-with-benefits.”

“But that would involve us being _ friends_,” Hannibal teases, letting his tone rest on the edge of gentle mocking. Turning Will’s own words back on him from their evening talk outside the hospital.

Will gives him a _ look _for that, arch little thing, but steps in close enough his boots bump up against Hannibal’s, chest to chest. Hannibal doesn’t protest or step away, allowing Will to spread his hands against Hannibal’s chest for balance, allowing Will to rest just a little of his weight against Hannibal as he stretches up against Hannibal just enough to rub their cheeks lightly together.

The slow drag of smooth skin and stubble is both placatory and provocative, Will in entirety: something soft and a little of the sharp showing from underneath. It leaves behind Will’s scent on Hannibal’s jaw - currently, sweet, cheap shampoo and strong, infuriatingly bland and chemical scent-blockers - and spreads Hannibal’s scent to Will, marking them both for each other. It sends pleasant shudders down their spines when they both smell their mingled scents on each other, when their hot breaths brush against each other’s cheeks in the chill of the night.

Will’s eyes, when Hannibal tips his head down at last to fully look at them, have blown black with desire, thinly ringed and all but glowing with omega gold. Their noses bump together, and Hannibal enjoys the moment, enjoys the night and the heat and Will’s open, naked desire for him, the way Will’s lips part for him when Hannibal dips even closer to it to murmur one last amused and inquiring, “Friends?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Will breathes against his mouth, and kisses him.

Will tastes smoky and sweet, the leftover savoury notes of their dinner layered beneath the flavours of apples and sugar and chocolate, the warm heat of bourbon, cider and rum. Ozone lingers on his lips, well-kissed by the wind well before Hannibal had gotten there, and their breath between them creates dragon-smoke in the chill air.

Hannibal has to hold him - and Will seems to enjoy the feeling of Hannibal’s leather-clad fingers dragging through his hair, leaning into the sensation, into the kiss, his skull cradled in the cup of Hannibal’s palm when Hannibal raises it to curve around the line of his jaw. One of his hands shifts upwards to grip Hannibal’s shoulder, thumb pressed to Hannial’s collarbone - and brings with it a wave of new scents, intrusive.

Will’s scent-blockers are a constant background of blandness that Hannibal has just resigned himself to bearing tonight until he can get Will to sweat or wash them off, but the smells clinging to the sleeve of Will’s jacket are a completely separate offence. With the night breeze, the blockers and a dog between them, Hannibal had missed the scents marking Will’s jacket, the trace-oils left behind on the piece of clothing by other people. Heaviest on the one arm but all down Will’s side as well, they smell like an unknown alpha - no, _ alphas -, _something overly sweet that cloys against Hannibal’s palate all mixed up with spice, mouldering dirt and rancid fatty musk. Burnt coffee, burnt sugar, and salt.

The stink of alpha desire, ugly longing, and cheap cafeteria food.

At least one particularly malodorous alpha has set their sights on Will Graham, and Will had let them _ touch _him.

Is that why Will is wearing scent-blockers? It would be somewhat gauche, after all, to seduce one friend whilst stinking of the ardour of another - of _ others -, _ especially when asking a beta to supplant the traditional role of an alpha in an omega’s bed. Or perhaps -

Will’s eyes flutter open at the twist of Hannibal’s mouth, his cheeks kiss-flushed and pupils still blown black by more than the dark of the night. In the depths of them, something lovely and vicious and _ hungry _uncoils to meet Hannibal’s gaze and Hannibal finds himself grinning savagely at it in response, his lips pulled back just enough to show his teeth, his thumb rubbing small tender circles in the hollow behind Will’s ear. 

_ I am going to slowly remove the fingers of every alpha who dared to touch you, joint by little joint. _

“You _ have _been thinking,” Hannibal murmurs, pleased at the little half-nuzzle-nudge Will does unthinkingly into his hand. It does something to soothe the beast snarling at the back of Hannibal’s skull, stalking through the hallways of his mind in search of explanations.

“Always thinking, that’s me.” Will’s lips quirk up into a lopsided smile, half full of shadows and all the more charming because of it. “Have you any opinions on the topic?”

“It’s rapidly endearing itself to me anew,” says Hannibal, and dips in close again for another kiss.

Hannibal doesn’t require something as crude as a_ knot _ to make his bedpartners forget their own name. If Will has taken other lovers, Hannibal will see to it that those other lovers are soon discarded and disappear, and if Will is simply being pursued by others, consumed as they are by lust as well as their own hubris - _ well. _ It will be all the easier to make them depart even quicker. Hannibal only _ shares _ when it is necessary to do so, and it is _ entirely _unnecessary to have some unknown and unworthy alpha turning Will’s head away from him, seeding wild thoughts into the precious, fertile cradle of Will’s skull. 

Should affairs end amicably with Will, Hannibal would be content to arrange introductions between Will and an alpha Hannibal believes might _ actually _ be a good and worthy match for him. Will would hardly be the first of Hannibal’s bed-partners to have been gently steered into a new, prosperous relationship after their sexual and/or romantic entanglement with Hannibal had reached the end of its usefulness, and the emotional interest Hannibal accrues by being the midwife to favourable matches between others often pays him further dividends down the line. A significant number of happy couples now feel indebted to Hannibal for their mated and/or matrimonial bliss, spreading word of Hannibal’s good name throughout society whilst permanently reserving him a place at their business establishments, speeding up his private orders and putting him in touch with friends of ‘friends’ for whatever Hannibal might be interested in throughout the world.

For Will… for Will, perhaps another one of Hannibal’s old paramours might be best, an Anglo-Dutch alpha woman with a silver tongue almost as quick as her feet. Lysanne. A former ballerina - and an especially divine Swan Queen, to Hannibal’s memory -, the lady in question now works as a private physiotherapist just outside of New York, restoring vintage motorcycles on occasional commission. Will and she could bond over poking at engine parts and walking - between them - their nine assorted dogs, and their children would be blessed with intelligence, agility, fortitude and stamina as they tumble about in the wealthy suburbs with their parents and ever-increasing pack of canine companions. Hopefully inheriting their father’s love and talent for the arts, as well as their mother’s particular fascinating mind, as, with such parentage, their natural aesthetic beauty would already be almost certainly guaranteed.

It would be a shame for Will’s dark curls and storm-ridden eyes to die with him, and a _ travesty _for the world to lose his mind. Lysanne could make a beautiful mother of him, and her own curiosity about the world’s darker corners would mean she would not stifle the poetic impulses of Will’s sharp soul. 

Alana, much as she may be attracted to Will Graham, cannot breed him without outside help, and she is too rigidly, socially _ moral _to make a good third on the path Hannibal hopes Will might continue upon. Her goodness is something admirable but detrimental to Hannibal’s hopes for Will’s development, and so her nascent fluttering feelings for Will Graham need to be either diverted or extinguished.

Their lips part with a soft wet sound, still tingling from heat, pressure.

“I’m not looking for a serious relationship, doctor,” Will murmurs, his fingers still tellingly clenched in the material of Hannibal’s jacket. Wary here, at a line in the sand, though the air between them is still warm.

“That’s more than fair,” Hannibal tells him solicitously, watching Will relax again by increments as Hannibal smoothes his hand up Will’s spine, coaxing this wild thing to melt against him, “as nor am I. However, since we’re embracing the casual, perhaps you might simply call me Hannibal?”

Deliciously crisp as _ Dr. Lecter _sounds in Will’s mouth, intimacies of every kind will be easier to encourage if they are both on a first-name basis.

A tinge of pink stains Will’s cheekbones anew, the flush of colour bleeding out into the gold made of his skin by the lights of his home. “Hannibal.”

Hannibal smiles and rewards Will with another brief kiss, swallowing the quick little rolling chirp of Will’s pleasure from the back of his mouth and then releasing him before Will can fall wholly against him. The house waiting for them across the field would be a better place for them to continue, a beacon to the comforts of indoors.

They return there, and Will busies himself wiping down the paws of his dogs on the porch as Hannibal goes to fetch the go-bag he keeps in the trunk of his car: a leftover habit from his days working in the Emergency Room.

Will glances up from cleaning Max’s paws to eye the bag slung over Hannibal’s shoulder meaningfully. “Presumptuous?”

“Hopeful,” Hannibal corrects serenely, blocking two of the already-cleaned dogs from trotting back off the porch with his body.

Winston, his paws already cleaned, sits beside Will, his furry body once more blocking the omega from Hannibal. Will doesn’t seem to notice, releasing Max to join his brothers and hauling in a wriggling Buster.

“Hope is a thing with feathers.”

“And the thing with paws is…”

“Statistically?” Will sighs, the towel in his hands marked heavily with brown. “Muddy.”

When the dogs are all clean the pack is sent inside to their beds. Will and Hannibal follow them, removing their shoes at the door so as not to undo all of Will’s good work in keeping his floors clean and shedding the rest of their outer wear as well.

Hannibal assists Will in pulling down the blinds over his wide windows, switching on the space heater in front of the fireplace for the dogs and turning off the lights, but, before Will can extinguish the last few low lights around his bed, Will hesitates, looking back at Hannibal with a question in his eyes.

Hannibal regards him placidly. “If you have changed your mind about any of your earlier offers, Will, I will not take offence.”

He will, however, do his best to change Will’s mind _ back _again.

“It’s not -” Will wavers again, before flicking his gaze eloquently to the set of seven pairs of watchful canine eyes sitting in their dog beds. And back to Hannibal again. “There’s the spare bed upstairs.”

Ah, he’s worried about their audience.

“Do you sleep there?” Hannibal already knows the answer even before Will, flustered, shakes his head. The linens on the camp bed - interestingly situated - in Will’s living room are fresh, but the mattress underneath them and the furniture around that area is still perfumed with the scent of sleep: of loose hair, warm, sweet skin and Will’s sweat. And dogs.

Many, many dogs.

Hannibal has very little desire to spend his nights regularly swamped by dogs and sleeping on a _ camp bed _of all things - and a rather old and cheap-looking one at that -, but making Will Graham feel ashamed of his furry companions and his own belongings will only alienate the omega from Hannibal. Put Will on the defensive, and build resentment. For whatever reason - because Will can surely afford a better bed on an FBI professor’s annual salary -, Will regularly sleeps on a terrible bed in his living room, surrounded by his beloved dogs, and Hannibal will simply have to deal with that in order to integrate himself further into Will’s life.

Until Hannibal can kindly, carefully, steer Will into making better choices, anyway.

Where does Will even nest? Hannibal does not know many omegas that would favour Will’s living room as the place to comfortably build their nests: the space is far too open and exposed, with too many points of entry and wide staring windows. Nesting and denning - both the building of and residing in a nest or den - are encouraged as a soothing method across all genders and dynamics, with omegas preferring the former and alphas the latter, but nesting out in the open oftens leaves omegas on-edge and anxious, and the scent of anxiety building up in one’s nest only hastens the decline of the omega’s mood. When things get bad in a nest, without immediate attention, they nearly always get _ worse. _

Then again, most of the omegas Hannibal interacts with enough to be even tangentially aware of their nesting habits have families, and so build their nests not only for themselves but for or to share with their partners and/or children. They have others willing to go _ outside _the nest when the omega is not, a line of defence beyond the omega’s personal awareness and abilities.

If Will nests in his living room he might feel exposed, but he’d certainly be able to defend himself better with seven loyal dogs around him and clear lines of sight for miles. With his general attitude and ability to keep his head in times of danger and stress… truly, Will could stage a ferocious defence.

Hannibal hums, and reels Will in by his empty belt loops. “Here will do.”

“Oh, your munificence knows no bounds.”

Hannibal allows his face to crease into a smile at Will’s dry sarcasm, sharp hips at last between his hands, Will warm and pliant before him. The perfect shape and height to hold. “Shall I tell you a secret? I have thought about putting my mouth on the lovely bare line of your throat from the moment you opened your front door.”

Will’s own smile is a pleased - a little embarrassed - thing, his fingers hooking themselves into the front of Hannibal’s cream sweater like the kneading claws of a cat. His neck is arched back - just so -, showing off the pale column of his throat that Hannibal has been admiring all evening, the naked curves to his shoulders, the spread wings of his collarbones beneath the skin. “You weren’t subtle.”

Will shivers when Hannibal chuckles, but that may be because Hannibal has pressed the sound of it to his skin, conquering temptation at last by submitting to it and pressing his mouth in slow wet kisses down the pulse of Will’s throat.

It is _ more _ than worth the awful chemical taste of scent-blockers to have Will’s tender flesh against his lips and teeth again at last. The sight of Will so soft at the door - old sweater slipping off his shoulders and over his hands, bare toes poking out beneath soft denim cuffs and damp curls drying in windblown disarray - had made Hannibal’s mouth water and teeth itch just as much as his reptilian brain, the promise of such a tempting prize in reach demanding Hannibal _ take, take, take. _ Each day and night are made for seizing - and so, in this moment, is Will Graham, the plush curves of his ass nicely filling Hannibal’s palms.

Will gasps when Hannibal’s tongue laves once over one of his scent glands, cupping Hannibal’s jaw between his hands to lift Hannibal’s kisses back to his mouth. Hannibal obliges him, parting Will’s lips with his tongue to taste him there all over again, alcohol and sugar still sweet inside the seam of his lips.

Will’s hands slide into Hannibal’s hair and he sucks on Hannibal’s tongue with a hungry little sound that sinks, burning, straight from the back of his throat to Hannibal’s cock. Hannibal lets his hips roll forward with the urge, pressing his full body against the slighter man in his arms and grinding his hardness against Will’s obvious rising own.

Will gasps again - tempting thing -, eagerly mirroring the motion once, twice, before Hannibal slides to his knees before him, lifting Will’s sweater to press a quick hot kiss against the skin of the omega’s trembling belly. If Hannibal could, he would have his mouth all over Will, tasting him all at once as their dinner, _ service à la française_.

“Hannibal,” Will breathes - and again when Hannibal unzips his fly, dragging down jeans and boxers and swallowing the jump of Will’s cock to the root in one smooth motion. _ “Hannibal!” _

Will has a generally unremarkable cock for an omega, neither too long nor too short, circumcised as many American men are. It curves gently upwards at full mast, its thickness stretching Hannibal’s lips nicely and its dewing tip rubbing against his hard palate as he moves his head lazily back and forth, drawing Will deeper into his mouth when Will rocks himself forward with a moan. When Hannibal uses his grasp on Will’s ass to coax him to do so, starting to slowly thrust.

Hannibal encourages him by rubbing his tongue hard against the underside, hollowing his cheeks to suck when Will is at his deepest so the suction drags against Will’s dick as he rolls his hips away. Forwards again, and Hannibal hums in pleasure at the sound of Will’s sharp little breaths above him, the growing salty-sweet slickness he can taste at the back of his mouth.

Of the main dynamics, omegas tend to be the better-tasting, their innate sweetness tempering most ill-effects caused by poor diet or unlucky genetics. Will’s diet could desperately handle some improvement - it features too much bad coffee, for one -, but his genetics ring true: the pheromones of Will’s slick carry echoes of his scent, salt-sweet over sweet smoke, the cool shock of ozone Hannibal swallows around again for the taste just as much as feeling nails dig into his scalp. Scratching through his hair as Will’s control begins to fail. 

By his own allowance, Hannibal permits the building heat to suffuse his own body, his own cock pressing thick and urgent against the fly of his trousers, his nipples rising to hard points to rub against the soft fabric on the inside of his sweater. The cloth of his trousers is no real protection for Hannibal’s knees against the inflexibility of Will’s floorboards, the strain beginning to build in the muscles of Hannibal’s thighs, tension locking low into his back and his breath coming a shade quicker through his nose.

Will’s knees buckle after one particularly hard suck and Hannibal, gripping hard now around the other man’s thighs, is probably the only reason Will remains standing. Will laughs a little at that, high and breathless with pleasure and still managing to be self-effacing, sharing his amusement with Hannibal when Hannibal gives him another wicked glance up from beneath his eyelashes.

“C’mere,” he entreats, smiling, tugging playfully with the hands he still has tangled up in Hannibal’s hair to make it clear he means _ come _ up _ here, _ flushed pink in the face and with his eyes a bright and gleaming gold. When Hannibal only swallows around his cock again, he laugh-gasps before he swears, pulling at Hannibal’s hair more firmly. “Come _ here, _Jesus, are you trying to suck my brain out of my dick?”

Hannibal pulls off Will’s cock to chuckle at that, resting his face for a moment against the other man’s hip. “Your nervous system appears to be enjoying the attempt.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Will huffs at him, remarkably composed for a man whose cock is still bobbing, blood-red, spit-slick and desirous, beside Hannibal’s cheek. His nails scratch across Hannibal’s scalp again - a light furrow, pleasant, like one might stroke through the fur of a cat.

Hannibal mouths another wet kiss to the side of cock again, just to see what Will will do, and isn’t disappointed when the omega calls him another rude name, gripping Hannibal’s shoulder to pull him to his feet. _ Carpe noctem. _

“Bed,” Will half-begs, half-demands, pushing Hannibal back across the floor until the back of his knees hit the camp bed behind him and Hannibal is forced to sit on it or fall.

Hannibal sits and Will immediately crawls onto his lap. He draws Hannibal into another smattering of kisses, using the distraction to pull off Hannibal’s shirt and then laughing at the disarray it makes of Hannibal’s hair. His fingers rake down Hannibal’s chest, and Hannibal hopes they leave marks like the last time, breaking skin and leaving blood trails whose sting had reminded Hannibal for the next few days of having this particular wild creature in his bed.

“I want to ride you until you come,” Will tells him, forthright as a devoted sinner in the confessional box, “and then I want to fuck you.”

“By all means,” Hannibal murmurs, mouth wet against Will’s jaw, his voice still rough from swallowing Will so deep. Far be it from Hannibal to argue with the aroused omega on his lap who knows exactly what they want. 

Begrudgingly, Will has to get up to go and raid a dog-proof box under his bedside table. The spoils of his trip are thrust aggressively against Hannibal’s chest before he starts to undress: a bottle of lube and a box of condoms.

Knotting condoms.

“...I’m flattered,” Hannibal says, carefully bland, after a moment’s pause, his gaze flickering between the box and the easy way Will is dropping his jeans and underwear the rest of the way to the floor, “but I fear you may have forgotten my anatomy.”

Will glances back at him, perplexed, before he realises all at once what he’s given Hannibal and flushes a dull red. The knotting condoms are grabbed, and Will quickly replaces them with a box suitable for phalluses without a knot at the base. Ever prepared.

Omegas are only fertile during their heats and, occasionally, either side of them, but, as they had both attested to their good health before going to bed the first time, condoms still help with clean-up.

They both set about removing their clothes - or the rest of their clothes, in Will’s case. One of the dogs barks when Will’s socks get tossed away haphazardly into the darker spots of the room, and Hannibal moves up the bed as Will scolds it, making himself at home amongst Will’s - distressingly thin - pillows, the top sheet and covers tossed aside.

Will joins him there when he’s ready, bare skin unfolding in the lamplight to straddle Hannibal’s lap once more. Their neglected cocks bob up against their bellies, Will hissing between his teeth when Hannibal wraps a hand around both to give them a languid stroke, wet with drying saliva and precome.

“Too much?” Hannibal asks him teasingly, receiving an answer by way of Will’s exasperated little look. Neither of them wants to end things so quickly. “Very well then.”

Will is already pleasingly wet behind when Hannibal reaches around him to touch him there, warm slick spilling out over Hannibal’s hand as he circles the rim of Will’s hole and then slips two fingers inside. Even the dynamic supposedly ‘bred for fucking’ appreciates a little preparation before moving things along, and Will’s back arches beautifully when Hannibal curls his fingers _ just so _ inside of him, his pink lips parting in a pretty _ o _and on a downright filthy moan as he rocks back onto Hannibal’s hand. Beautiful boy.

Hannibal takes the offering of his throat to mark it with teeth and tongue, sucking a bruise over Will’s pulse that will decorate Will for days to come. He works a third finger into Will, rubbing them ruthlessly across the sensitive spots inside of the omega and grinning when Will snarls at him for it - on far too high a note for it to register as a threat.

“Enough!” Will slaps at Hannibal’s chest, picking up the discarded box of condoms and hitting Hannibal with it until he pulls his fingers out of Will and rolls one of them on.

The way Will spreads his thighs and immediately sinks down on Hannibal’s cock says something about how frustrated Hannibal has made the other man, and the pleasure of that is _ almost _as good as how Will’s tight walls feel bearing down around Hannibal. Like fucking up into a warm, silken, squeezing glove.

Will is eloquent when he doesn’t think about it, beautiful worlds spilling as much from his tongue as they bloom from his evocative eyes, stories told by the twist of his mouth and in the movement of his hands. There’s an honesty in his body that is sometimes missing in the rest of him, and _ this, _ this raw hunger as he _ takes _what he wants from Hannibal feels like one of the most honest things Hannibal has seen so far of Will Graham.

Should fortune allow, Hannibal would like to spend at least one of Will’s heats with him. Any deluded alphas - or persons of other dynamics - vying for the same thing will find themselves swiftly removed from the equation by Hannibal, so time and its associated circumstances will be the deciding factors, but a just universe would surely arrange events to _ give _Will’s heat to Hannibal. Will at his most honest, most base, inhibitions stripped back to combine his needs for sex and violence.

The flashes of Will’s ferocity outside of his heat have only stoked Hannibal’s appetite for _ more - _and what were omegas given claws and fangs for, if not to defend themselves from the unworthy? If not to seize what they desire, no matter the cost? Will, in heat, gold eyes flashing and lips pulled back in a snarl, would be ruinous in ruin, and his submission at his most wild would be the sweetest prize. Mounting him, half out of his mind, when every instinct in Will would have him murder anyone too weak to try.

True to his stated intent, Will rides Hannibal primarily for Hannibal’s pleasure rather than his own. That isn’t to say Will isn’t obviously enjoying himself - his mouth hangs open on harsh pants as he rolls their hips together, no knot required -, but, when Hannibal’s cock glances too firmly across his prostate, Will adjusts the angle of his pelvis, his hands curling into ten little sharp points on Hannibal’s chest even as his own cock drips messily over Hannibal’s belly.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal tells him, murmuring the word against Will’s panting mouth as he steals kiss after sweet stinging nipping kiss, clutching at Will’s slim waist and bucking upwards to fuck Will as deeply as possible. He wants Will to work enough to sweat off those ridiculous scent-blockers, and wants Will to _ crave _ that work some more. _ “Bellissimo._”

Predictably, Will bites him for the Italian, and Hannibal laughs throatily, pleased when the bite draws blood enough to smear over both their mouths. He presses forward, and fucks the iron taste of himself into Will’s mouth with his tongue: _ et quod est superius est sicut quod est inferius_, as above, so below.

His cock buried in so much tight, rhythmically clenching, heat, Hannibal can feel his own need rising, coiling like a snake of fire low in his abdomen, behind his balls. Will seems determined to drag it from him no matter what and Hannibal isn’t inclined to argue with his dedication, pressing open bloody-mouthed kisses down the column of Will’s neck and murmuring low nonsense words of encouragement there in at least half a dozen languages.

“Come for me,” Will demands of him, clutching Hannibal’s head to the crook of his neck with a hard grip on Hannibal’s hair.

Presented with such bounty, Hannibal sucks bruises over Will’s scent gland, raking the flesh before him with the flat of his teeth until Will shivers again and moans. Making such pretty noises as Hannibal thumbs the dimple of his back, grips the swell of his ass to rut in deep.

Perhaps remembering the strength of Hannibal’s entreaty to him in the fields: _ “Hannibal._”

Hannibal jerks and spills into the condom, pulse after pulse after mindless pulse, remembering to turn his head against the burn of Will’s grasp that when he bites down - hard -, he does so against the smooth flesh of Will’s shoulder rather than his gland.

Will moans for Hannibal again, his spare hand flying down to push between their bodies and squeeze the base of his cock, staving off the near-orgasm Hannibal can read quivering across all of his nerves, a low sweet note held on the bow. Beautiful, trembling, _ needing _thing.

Some of the points of the bite on Will’s shoulder are beading with blood. Will lets loose a hazy little _ oh _when Hannibal leans in to lick them away, sweat-salt and copper bright on Hannibal’s tongue after the dizzy rush of orgasm.

“That can hardly be hygienic.”

“Ah, sexual intercourse, globally renowned as the most hygienic of activities.” Hannibal licks Will’s blood from his teeth and lets his lips curl up into a smirk, unsurprised when Will pulls him into another kiss, wet and deep and hungry.

Hannibal is still smirking when they part again. “I believe you said something about fucking me?”

Rearranging themselves on the bed is less titillating art and more sticky practicalities with percussive bedsprings. Hannibal has a full condom to dispose of and Will a fresh one to don, and the both of them are sheened with sweat and another fresh spill of Will’s slick from his so-recently stretched hole.

Will uses a little of his natural lubrication to stretch Hannibal out before reaching for the synthetic stuff in the half-forgotten bottle, far too gone to tease Hannibal with his fingers for as much or as long as Hannibal had teased him. Inwardly, Hannibal is grateful for the care; it has been a long time since his refractory period was raring to go after a few scant minutes, and exploiting each other’s oversensitivity doesn’t seem to be the game of choice for the night. Another time, certainly.

Even with a trembling wrist and hummingbird pulse, Will’s prep-work is almost polite, three fingers deep and avoiding the lure of Hannibal’s prostate as he works Hannibal wet and open, Hannibal flat on his back now and enjoying being the centre of Will’s single-minded focus. It allows him to, once more, study the full bloom of gold in Will’s eyes, the flecks of other colours still gleaming in the iris like many-faceted jewels.

Will is pink now, all over, the blood-flush having spread down his throat from his cheeks and covered his chest. Hannibal wants to taste it again all over, feel the heat of it against his tongue, but must settle for turning his mouth wetly against Will’s wrist when Will reaches up to stroke his jaw, slanting his eyes at Will askance when Will takes that wrist away, his thumb dragging for a moment over the swell of Hannibal’s lips.

Will’s lips quirk up into a smile so Hannibal continues to lie back and let Will touch him, offering his belly in a play of submission. Will has already grasped that Hannibal is not another one of his strays; Hannibal is decidedly more feline, and as willing to instinctively mark with his teeth and nails as the omega is.

Taking the gift he has been given, Will’s free hand flutters down over Hannibal’s ribs as Hannibal holds himself as still as possible, over muscles, thumbing over Hannibal’s nipples and tugging idly through the hair on Hannibal’s chest before rubbing circles with his palm over Hannibal’s abdomen. His nails drag just hard enough to be felt over the firm outer muscle of Hannibal’s thigh, curving inwards until they can rake a little more harshly up the more sensitive inside and Hannibal has to let his breath escape his teeth in a hiss.

“Are you ticklish?” Will asks him inquisitively when Hannibal’s muscle spasms under his touch, wretched, beautiful devilment about his bitten mouth.

“You may have your answer or have _ me_,” Hannibal informs him, too tellingly clipped for his own liking.

Will snorts but picks the option both of them prefer, removing his fingers from inside of Hannibal and smoothly replacing them with the steady press of his cock. Hannibal pushes back into it, taking Will into him until their pelvises lie flush and Will is, once more, a wreck atop of him.

As soon as Hannibal nods, relaxed around the stretch, Will begins to move.

Amongst the incredibly conservative, there are some - _ fools - _ that decry an omega taking the penetrative role, calling it a waste of time at best and unnatural at worst. Omegas are meant to be mounted and bred, and to allow them to do otherwise is supposedly a perversion of their natural _ purpose _on earth.

Hannibal would rather like to see Will and any other omegas with even an ounce of his furious beauty tear those imbeciles apart with their teeth. Fuel for their fires, for rutting as they please afterwards in the deep dark pools of heartblood.

Hannibal himself reaps the benefits of keeping an open mind and open legs regardless of gender or dynamic, his own standards far superior to the common social metrics. Penetrating, penetrative or otherwise, sex is a pleasant diversion and a useful tool, and Hannibal has had and been had by men and women, alphas, beta and omegas, and many others who had used different labels to describe themselves. Will is another gorgeous, vicious and fascinating distraction to add to the list - perhaps even a marked highlight, time will tell, but absolutely a tough act to follow.

For now, Hannibal is content to lie back, wrapping his legs around Will’s hips and _ enjoying _ the smooth roll of the omega’s hips into him, enjoying being enjoyed. Little jolts of pleasure keep shuddering up his spine regardless of whether Hannibal can get fully hard at the moment, and Will moving above him is a feast for the senses, cheeks flushed pink and lips kiss-swollen, his tousled curls an echo of one of Caravaggio’s beautiful boys. Will’s slick still drips freely from him, wet and shining on the inside of his thighs, more slickness to add to the lube shining around Hannibal’s hole when it runs forward and drips at the place their bodies meet, and the wet sounds of their coupling fill the night.

“Should I make you come again?” Will asks, turning the back of soft knuckles against Hannibal’s semi-hard erection where it debates rising once more against the doctor’s belly.

“Do you have the patience?” Hannibal inquires, genuinely interested, and has to laugh when Will obviously takes it as a challenge. Mouth firm, eyes blazing, Will’s next thrust forward is hard and sure against Hannibal’s prostate, his aim sending a _ bolt _of pleasure-pain up Hannibal’s spine, leaving him a little winded with the direct stab to his core. “...Another night, I think. Yes.”

Will’s knuckles press down a little more firmly, dragging almost tauntingly at the looser flesh around Hannibal’s foreskin, the sensitive head beneath wetting the back of his hand. “Yes?”

“Yes, _ another night._”

Grinning, fangs still bared, Will leaves Hannibal’s overly sensitive cock alone and leans down to kiss Hannibal when Hannibal slings his arms over Will’s shoulders, little pants of breath that gust over Hannibal’s lips and chin, their mouths catching between drags of their cheeks over each other. Hannibal hadn’t shaved before coming over so his evening shadow has begun to grow in. The friction of their stubble rubbing together sends prickles of heat through Hannibal’s throat and jaw, the faintest threads of Will’s true scent _ finally _emerging in drifts of wood and spice as they mark each other anew.

“Are you close?” Hannibal murmurs, turning his mouth against the blushing shell of Will’s ear and letting one of his hands slide south down the smooth slope of Will’s back.

A furrow springs to life between Will’s brows, refusing to be smoothed out by the nudge of Hannibal’s forehead against it. “Am I- am I hurting you?”

“Sweet thing.” Amused at the thought, Hannibal kisses the wrinkle instead, pressing it flat with the imprint of his mouth. “That isn’t why I’m asking.”

Will frowns against his jawline - and then cries out when Hannibal slips two of his fingers back inside of him, still so wet and open and easy to take advantage of. Will’s pace stutters when Hannibal deliberately drags his knuckles against the warm red rim of his ass, twisting his wrist somewhat painfully to get the angle right and press his fingertips against the delicate swell of Will’s prostate.

“I-” Will gasps, biting at the bob of Hannibal’s throat when his next few thrusts glance off Hannibal’s prostate again and Hannibal growls. “Han- Ha - I-”

Will comes, his eyes fluttering closed and mouth falling open as he rides the crest of his orgasm. Like a man drowning. Hannibal pets him through it, continuing to finger Will lazily until Will slows and begins to whimper, his weight falling down more heavily on Hannibal as his breathing returns to normal.

He makes no attempt to pull out of Hannibal and Hannibal makes no attempt to move him, silently counting the beats of Will’s heart as it thunders against their ribcages, watching strands of Will’s damp hair flutter as they breathe.

Hannibal returns his hands to Will’s spine, lulling the wild creature in his arms to complacency with smooth, even strokes of his palms. Will’s back and the space between his shoulder blades is slick with sweat, pink, tender meat oiled and salted, ready for the pan: pre-marked by the butcher, Hannibal’s bite on Will’s shoulder still congealing around a bruise.

Eventually they part, Will shuffling back and rolling awkwardly to the side to dispose of his condom, the bed protesting the sudden movement with several noisy creaks and squeaks beneath them. 

Startlingly, Hannibal finds himself immediately missing the warm stretch of Will inside of him, Will’s removal leaving a hollow where he had been. Will’s arm flung across Hannibal’s belly as the omega flops down on the mattress beside him does something to fill the ache, Will turned on his side against Hannibal’s arm, his forehead pressed to the curve of Hannibal’s bicep. Breathing.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Hannibal asks, tilting his head lazily on the pillow to look at Will.

“Not sure they’re worth as much as that,” Will mumbles. He nuzzles tiredly against Hannibal’s arm before lifting his face, the gold slowly bleeding out of his blinking eyes again to reveal their storm-blue hearts again.

Hannibal smiles at him, slowly, letting his arm come over Will’s arm on his abdomen, his palm cupped around Will’s elbow and thumb stroking the joint. “Don’t sell yourself so cheap.”

Will blinks at him - and then grins, his fangs glinting as he shifts even closer on the bed. “Dr. Lecter, are you saying I’m _ cheap? _”

“If it walks like a duck, and self-deprecatingly quacks like a duck -”

Will slaps Hannibal’s stomach with the cupped palm of his hand, deliberately more sound than substance, and rolls away with a laugh when Hannibal halfheartedly tries to grab at him. Hannibal gets a pillow to his face for his generosity - and an eyeful, when the sad flat thing falls away from him again, of Will standing by the bed, half in shadow, fucked and naked and glorious. Resting back on his heels, he looks replete - and, in the half-light, dangerous for it, a cat that plays with its prey for sport at leisure rather than devouring it quickly for a meal. An assured little tilt to his chin.

Hannibal had not lied when he had said Will had a beauty to make artists weep, the beguiling looks of muses throughout the ages paling against the fire of his glance. Marked by sex and teeth and blood, inside and out, the dark thing inside of Will has stretched out insouciantly into his bones, at ease in all his skin.

“If I went for what I’m worth, you wouldn’t be able to afford me,” Will informs Hannibal archly, and misses the savage slash of Hannibal’s grin when he turns his back on the bed to begin padding away. How infuriating it is to have him walk away, but how enjoyable to watch him go. “The bathroom’s upstairs.”

It takes a little more effort than Hannibal would have liked to prise himself out of Will’s bed and up the stairs after the other man, pausing only to grab his toothbrush on the way, and even more to perfunctorily scrub himself and his teeth clean. Both of them are a mess of lube, slick, sweat, welts, bites and bruises, and, even in the mundanities, Will is a distraction, finger-combing water through his curls until he spots Hannibal watching him and stops, muttering a flustered _ I’ll shower in the morning. _

Hannibal merely smiles at him blandly, and reaches up to wipe away a little of the toothpaste Will had left clinging to his cheek. Unsurprised when a blotchy-red Will finishes his wash-up quickly and flees from the room.

By the time Hannibal finishes in the bathroom and returns downstairs, Will has pulled on a t-shirt and boxers, turned off all but one of the lights, and gotten into bed.

He shuffles a little awkwardly when he notices Hannibal’s presence again - even God in heaven must be tormented by the sound of those squeaky bedsprings -, clutching at the covers he has picked up from the floor and so very aware of his own surroundings. The thoughts tripping so clearly across his expression, wondering what Hannibal must think of them. Him. “If you don’t want to sleep here -”

“Here,” Hannibal says firmly as he pulls on a pair of pyjama trousers from his go-bag, repeating his earlier words before Will can talk himself into paranoia, “will do.”

Hannibal’s back won’t thank him for a night in Will’s little camp bed but Will’s growing belief in him should outweigh the temporary damage to Hannibal’s spine. The dogs, at least, are already snoring away in their _ own _beds - even Winston.

The camp bed is warm when Hannibal joins Will in it, heavily scented with sex and body products, their own scents soft and soothing underneath. Each breath is laced with a mixture of musk and mint toothpaste, Hannibal’s cologne and the cardamom-spiced wintry woods - but sweet, sweet, _ sweet. _

With the blinds down, when Will reaches out to switch off the last light, the darkness of the world around and within Will’s little Wolf Trap home is almost absolute. The night presses close and heavy, blanketing Hannibal with the soft sounds of rustling bed linens and dog snores, a humming space heater, and Will, a little but terribly polite distance away across the mattress, breathing just a shade louder and faster than Hannibal in the night.

Hannibal gives the poor boy’s heart a few minutes to settle before casually inquiring, “Do _ you _want me to sleep elsewhere?”

Startled, Will makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cry, a cough and a distressed chirp, flailing around in the bedsheets - _ squeak squeeeak - _until he has rolled over to face Hannibal. “That wasn’t what I meant!”

His heart is pounding again, breath a little too fast again, and Hannibal lets his lips curve in a smile. “Not accustomed to sharing your bed?”

“Not like _ this,_” Will blurts out, and then _ groans, _ his head lifting from his pillow for a moment only to flop down on it again with a tragic _ thump. _ Hannibal can see him better now, his eyes adjusting to the dark, the moon of Will’s skin above the sheets. “You should know. I sweat sometimes. A _ lot._”

Interesting. Hannibal hums. “I was an Emergency Room surgeon, Will. I’ve had much more disgusting and objectionable things on me before than a beautiful man’s _ sweat._”

The night, for a moment, is both silent and flustered.

And then Will reaches out, across the little space between them, his blind hand stretching out to find Hannibal’s chest, pressing warm and open over the skin and hair there, over the slow steady thud of Hannibal’s heart.

“Stay,” Will entreats him quietly. His fingers are shaking.

“It would be my pleasure,” says Hannibal, and covers Will’s hand with his own until Will’s breaths slow and even out, his touch on Hannibal’s body going lax with sleep.

It is pleasant how quickly Hannibal feels sleep stretching out _ its _ fingers to wrap around him then, and he succumbs - secure in the knowledge, as he allows slumber to pull him down into its depths, that he has Will Graham exactly where he wants him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Niflette:_ (from Latin _ne flete_, ‘cry no more’) A sweet puff pastry tart filled with orange water crème pâtissière, served piping hot and traditionally made for All Saints Day. A specialty from the town of Provins in Seine-et-Marne, legend has it that a baker created niflettes to console a little girl who was crying at her grandmother’s grave, and the tarts were thus given out to orphans on All Saint’s Day (la Toussaint) as they came out of church. Originally, niflettes were only made for All Saints Day, but can now be found for sale during most of late autumn.
> 
> This chapter was - again! - supposed to be _revelations_, but Hannibal talked. Just. So much. Look at all his nefarious plotty plans. Look at them, because they’re all useless in the face of Will Graham and the hyper-intelligent dumbass hasn’t worked that out yet.
> 
> Hannibal’s outfit is almost a direct copy of [this look](https://senatus.net/album/image/106963/#photo) from the BOSS Hugo Boss A/W 2013/2014 campaign. Plaid was (unfortunately) incredibly fashionable in 2013. Hannibal’s S1 looks were cutting edge fashion.
> 
> More food:  
[Cassoulet of confit duck, lamb, pork, and Toulouse sausages](https://www.greatbritishchefs.com/recipes/duck-cassoulet-recipe)  
[Cranberry cider smash](https://www.tasteloveandnourish.com/cranberry-cider-smash/)  
[_Torta alla Monferrina___](https://italianhomecooking.co.uk/2017/11/12/apple-pumpkin-cake-monferrato-piemonte/)____  
[No-bake pumpkin spice cookie balls](https://tasty-yummies.com/no-bake-pumpkin-spice-cookie-balls-gluten-free-vegan-sugar-free/)  
[Chocolate-covered stuffed dates](https://tasty-yummies.com/chocolate-covered-stuffed-dates/)


End file.
